SIXTY  YEARS 

OF       THE 

THEATER 


JOHN  RAN  KEN  TOWSE 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


L, 


SIXTY   YEARS   OF   THE   THEATER 


EDWIN  BOOTH 


SIXTY  YEARS  OF 
THE  THEATER 

AN 

OLD  CRITIC'S  MEMORIES 


BY 

JOHN  RANKEN  TOWSE 

Forty-three  Years  Dramatic  Critic  of  "The  New  York 
Evening  Post" 


ILLUSTRATED 


FUNK  &  WAGNALLS  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
1916 


COPYRIGHT,  1913,  1914,  1916,  BY 
JOHN  RANKEN  TOWSE 

COPYRIGHT,  1916,  BY 

FUNK  &  WAGNALLS  COMPANY 

[Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America] 

Copyright  Under  the  Articles  of  the  Copyright  Convention  of  the 

Pan-American  Republics  and  the  United  States, 

August  11,  1910 

Published,  September,  1916 


College 
Library 

PA/ 


TO  MY  WIFE 

Oldest  and  Dearest  of  Comrades 


PREFACE 

THE  writer  of  these  reminiscences  is  fully  con- 
scious of  their  disorderly,  discursive  and  imper- 
fect form.  When  he  began  to  jot  them  down  for 
serial  publication  in  The  Evening  Post,  he  did  not 
foresee  the  possibility  of  their  ultimate  collection 
in  a  single  volume,  or  he  would  have  arranged  them 
differently,  with  greater  respect  for  convenient 
grouping  and  chronological  sequence.  This  may 
help  to  explain,  if  not  to  excuse,  many  obvious 
shortcomings.  These  pages  make  no  pretense  of 
being  a  complete  historical  record  even  of  the 
period  with  which  they  deal.  If  they  have  any 
value  it  is  because  they  record  the  honest  impres- 
sions and  convictions  of  one  who  has  been  a  life- 
long lover  and  student  of  the  theater — which  ought 
to  be  one  of  the  most  beneficial,  as  it  is  certainly 
one  of  the  most  potent  agencies  at  the  disposal  of 
civilization — and  who  has  enjoyed  exceptional 
facilities  for  seeing  it  at  its  best  and  worst,  and 
noting  its  influences  for  good  or  evil.  He  can  only 
hope  that  he  has  not  altogether  abused  them.  Many 
readers,  doubtless,  will  disagree  with  some  of  his 
theories,  conclusions,  and  critical  estimates,  and 
he  is  not  silly  enough  to  imagine  that  his  judg- 
ments are  infallible,  but  these,  such  as  they  are, 
are  based  upon  experience  and  comparison,  not 
upon  personal  prejudice  or  predilection.  Play- 
goers of  an  older  generation,  who  remember 


PREFACE 

Macready,  Forrest,  the  Keans,  the  Booths,  Daven- 
port and  their  contemporaries,  will  readily  assent 
to  the  degeneracy  of  the  modern  theater  in  all 
matters  of  sheer  artistry  and  histrionism.  It  is 
only  in  scenic  accessories,  and  in  the  lighter  and 
less  permanent  varieties  of  drama  that  it  has  made 
any  notable  advance.  Some  attempt  has  been  made 
herein  to  point  out  some  of  the  main  causes  of 
this  generally  acknowledged  decadence,  and  to 
indicate  the  most  hopeful  measures  for  its  arrest. 
Much  of  the  ground  traversed  in  this  book  has 
been  abundantly  trodden,  but  the  author  ventures 
to  hope  that  it  may  acquire  a  certain  freshness  of 
aspect,  when  regarded  from  independent,  and  spe- 
cially selected  points  of  view.  He  has  tried  to 
avoid  all  the  flattest  and  least  interesting  spots. 
If  he  has  skipped  some  worthy  of  notice,  through 
carelessness  or  incapacity,  he  is  heartily  sorry.  It 
is  too  late  now  to  make  amends.  With  regard  to 
living  actors  and  actresses,  to  whom  he  has  not 
referred,  it  may  be  pointed  out  that  he  has  not 
professed  to  discuss  any  who  were  not  prominent 
in  the  public  eye  at  the  opening  of  this  century.  It 
only  remains  for  him  to  acknowledge,  very  grate- 
fully, the  enrichment  of  the  text  by  the  courteous 
aid  in  photographic  material  extended  by  Messrs. 
Sarony,  Mora,  and  the  White  Studio,  Keen 's  Chop 
House,  of  New  York;  Mr.  F.  A.  King,  Mr.  Guy 
Nichols  and  Mr.  Daniel  Frohman. 

J.  BANKEN  TOWSE. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEB  t     PAGE 

I.  The  First  Pantomime  and  Some  Famous 

British  Stock  Companies      1 

II.  Charles  Kean,  J.  B.  Buckstone,  and  the 

Haymarket  Company 16 

III.  Sadler's  Wells,  Samuel  Phelps  and  Some 

of  His  Contemporaries        33 

IV.  More  of  Samuel  Phelps  in  Shakespearean 

and  Other  Impersonations 46 

V.  Benjamin  Webster,  Charles  Feehter,  and 

Others      62 

VI.  The  Stage  in  New  York  in  1870     . .      . .  80 

VII.  Wallack's  in  the  Days  of  John  Gilbert  . .  91 

VIII.  More  Plays  at  Wallack's 105 

IX.  Daly 's  Stock  Company  in  the  Seventies . .  121 

X.  Adelaide  Neilson  and  the  Union  Square 

Stock  Company 134 

XI.  The  Union  Square  Theater,  Clara  Morris 

and  Tommaso  Salvini 146 

XII.  Tommaso  Salvini  as  Conrad,  as  Niger,  as 

Saul,  and  as  Lear 166 

XIII.  Dealing  Especially  with  Edwin  Booth    . .   180 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTEB  PAGE 

XIV.  Charlotte    Cushman,    Helena    Modjeska, 

and  Bernhardt 196 

XV.  Fanny  Janauschek,  Who  Ended  in  Tribu- 
lations, and  Mary  Anderson,  Who 
Never  Knew  Anything  But  Popular 
Adoration  208 

XVI.  Lawrence  Barrett,  John  McCullough, 
Edgar  L.  Davenport,  Joseph  Jefferson, 
and  Others 222 

XVII.  Irving  and  Terry       235 

XVIII.  Tommaso  Salvini  and  Lester  Wallack    . .  248 

XIX.  Modjeska  and  Ristori        265 

XX.  Henry  Irving  and  Ellen  Terry       . .      . .  286 

XXI.  Richard  Mansfield     318 

XXII.  Augustin  Daly's  Company       341 

XXIII.  More  About  Augustin  Daly's  Company — 

The  Madison  Square  Company  . .      . .  358 

XXIV.  The  Lyceum  Theater  Company       . .      . .  377 
XXV.  Julia  Marlowe  and  E.  H.  Sothern  . .      . .  390 

XXVI.  Robert  Mantell,  Mrs.  Fiske,  Rose  Coghlan, 

and  Others     404 

XXVII.  The   Kendals,    Henrietta    Crosman,    and 

Margaret  Anglin 422 

XXVIII.  Herbert  Beerbohm  Tree 438 

XXIX.  Johnston   Forbes-Robertson,   E.   S.   Wil- 

lard,  John  Hare,  and  Others     . .      . .  448 

xii 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Edwin  Booth  (Portrait)       Frontispiece 

PACING   PAGE 

Henry  Compton  (Portrait) "1 

E.  A.  Sothern  as  "Lord  Dundreary"  . .      . .  > 28 

William  Chippendale   (Portrait)        ..      .  .J 

Sadler's  Wells  Theater 40 

Samuel  Phelps  as  "Hamlet"       ..     .. 

Miss  Glyn  as  "The  Queen" }• 48 

Samuel  Phelps  as  "Macbeth" 

Samuel  Phelps  as  "Cardinal  Wolsey" 

Samuel  Phelps  as  "Macsycophant"    . .      . .  }• 56 

Samuel  Phelps  (Portrait) J 

Benjamin  Webster  (Portrait)     68 

Charles  Fechter  as  "Edgar  of  Ravenswood"~ 

Charles  Fechter  as  "Robert  Macaire"       . .  Y 76 

Charles  Fechter  as  "Hamlet"     . . 

Dion  Boucicault  in  "The  Shaughraun" 

Madame  Ponisi  in  "The  Shaughraun". .      ..  ^ 96 

John  Gilbert  as  "Sir  Peter  Teazle"     . . 

Lester  Wallack  as  "Charles  Marlow" 

Lester  Wallack  as  "Benedick" }~ 116 

Lester  Wallack  as  "John  Garth" 

Charles  Fisher  as  "Sir  Peter  Teazle". . 

Fanny  Davenport  (Portrait)       }• 128 

Edgar  L.  Davenport  (Portrait) 

Adelaide  Neilson  as  "Viola" 

Adelaide  Neilson  as  "Juliet"       }~ ,     136 

Sara.  Jewett  as  "Lady  Teazle"    . . 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PAGE 

McKee  Rankin  as  "Jacques,"  in  "The  Two" 
Orphans". 


Kate  Claxton  as  "Louise,"  in  "The  Two 
Orphans" 

Charles  R.  Thome,  Jr.,  as  "De  Vaudray," 
in  "The  Two  Orphans" 


144 


Clara  Morris  (An  early  portrait) 

Clara  Morris  as  "Camille" Y 156 

Clara  Morris  as  "Miss  Multon"      .... 

Tommaso  Salvini  as  "Ingomar"  . .     . .     160 

Edwin  Booth  as  "lago"       

Edwin  Booth  as  "Hamlet" }• 192 

Edwin  Booth  as  "Cardinal  Richelieu" 

Sarah  Bernhardt  as  "Camille" 
Sarah  Bernhardt  as  "Hamlet"    . . 

Helena  Modjeska  as  "Portia"     . . 

Helena  Modjeska  as  "Ophelia" )- 204 

Helena  Modjeska  as  "Rosalind" 

Mary  Anderson  (Portrait) 

Mary  Anderson  as  "Galatea"      \- 216 

Fanny  Janauschek  (Portrait) 

Lawrence  Barrett  as  "Hamlet". . 

Lawrence  Barrett  in  "Francesca  da  Rimini"  }• 224 

John  McCullough  as  "Virginius" 

Joseph  Jefferson  as  "Rip  Van  Winkle"    . .  1  228 

Edgar  L.  Davenport  as  "Brutus"        . .     . .  J 

Ellen  Terry  as  "Lady  Macbeth" }  240 

Henry  Irving  as  "Hamlet" J 

Henry  Irving  as  "Shylock" 1  244 

Ellen  Terry  as  "Portia" J   ' 


xiv 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING  PAGE 

Lester  Wallack  (Portrait)   ..............     260 


Madame  Ristori  as  "Marie  Antoinette"      .  .  "1 
Madame  Ristori  as  "Mary  Stuart"      .  .     .  .  j 

Henry  Irving  as  "Cardinal  Wolsey"  .  . 
Ellen  Terry  as  "Queen  Katharine"     .  . 


.  .  \ 

.  .  J    '  ..... 


Richard  Mansfield  as  "Beau  Brummell" 

Richard  Mansfield  as  "Baron  Chevrial"    . .  }* 336 

Richard  Mansfield  as  "Richard  III.". . 

Augustin  Daly's  Stock  Company 344 

Otis  Skinner,  Virginia  Dreher,  Ada  Rehan, 

Mrs.  Gilbert,  in  "A  Night  Off" 348 

Ada  Rehan  as  "Rosalind" "I 

John  Drew  as  "Orlando" i- 352 

James  Lewis  as  "Touchstone"      J 

Jessie  Millward  (Portrait)  . . 

Effie  Ellsler  (Portrait) 

W.  J.  Lemoyne  (Portrait)   ..  * 

Eben  Plympton  as  "Orlando" 

James  K.   Hackett  in   "The   Prisoner  of- 

380 
Mary  Mannering  (Portrait) . . 

Henry  Miller  in  "Heartsease" 

Georgia  Cayvan  (Portrait)  . . 

Blanche  Whiffen  in  "Old  Heads  and  Young 

Hearts" ^ 384 

Herbert  Kelcey  in  "Old  Heads  and  Young 
Hearts': 

Bessie  Tyree,  Georgia  Cayvan,  Katharine  -j 

Florence,  in  "The  Amazons"       . .     . .  I  „„_ 

E.  H.   Sothern,  W.  J.  Lemoyne,  in  "The  f 

Highest  Bidder" J 

xv 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING   PAGE 


Julia  Marlowe  as 
E.  H.  Sothernas 


"Viola" \ 

"Villon" J 


E.  H.  Sothern  and  Julia  Marlowe  in  "Romeo 

and  Juliet"      400 

Robert  Mantell  as  "King  John" 404 

Minnie  Maddern  Fiske  (Portrait)     . .      . .  1 

Rose  Coghlan  (Portrait)       [- 416 

Charles  Coghlan  as  "Orlando" J 

Mr.   and   Mrs.   Kendall   in   "A    Scrap   ofl 

Paper"      Y 432 

Wilson  Barrett  as  "The  Silver  King". .      . .  J 

Herbert  Beerbohm  Tree  as  "Hamlet" . .      . . 
Herbert  Beerbohm  Tree  as  "Shylock". .     . . 

John  Hare  (Portrait) 

E.  S.  Willard  in  "The  Middleman"    . .     . .      448 

Johnston  Forbes-Robertson  as  "Hamlet"  . . 


xvi 


SIXTY  YEARS  OF  THE 
THEATER 


THE  FIRST  PANTOMIME  AND  SOME  FAMOUS 
BRITISH  STOCK  COMPANIES 

MOEE  than  sixty  years  have  passed  since  I  first 
entered  the  portals  of  a  theater.  Of  the  identity 
of  the  house  I  am  not  certain.  I  think  it  was  the 
old  Adelphi  in  London — but  the  date  was  April, 
1853,  the  occasion  was  a  birthday,  and  the  play 
was  "  Jack  the  Giant  Killer"  with  Lydia  Thomp- 
son, yet  in  her  teens,  as  the  hero.  She  died  long 
ago  an  old  woman  in  her  eighth  decade,  unknown 
to  the  rising  generation,  but  in  her  youth  she  was 
a  vision  of  loveliness  yet  cherished  in  the  memories 
of  elderly  playgoers,  and  she  was  a  public  favorite 
on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic  for  very  many  sea- 
sons. Without  having  any  pretensions  to  genius 
or  to  substantial  fame,  she  is  worthy  of  remem- 
brance as  a  pillar  in  that  institution  of  English 
burlesque  which  flourished  mightily  in  mid- Vic- 
torian days,  fell  gradually  through  various  de- 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

grees  of  disrepute  into  utter  degradation,  but, 
nevertheless,  furnished  the  legitimate  stage  with 
some  of  the  cleverest  comedians  of  modern  times. 
No  woman,  or  man  either  for  that  matter,  ever 
danced  the  sailor's  hornpipe  as  she  did  in  her 
heyday,  with  such  an  exquisite  combination  of 
vigor,  agility,  and  grace.  The  spirit,  speed,  and 
airy  lightness  of  her  performance  were  incom- 
parable. 

This  juvenile  impression  would  scarcely  have 
been  worthy  of  record  here  if  the  essential  truth 
of  it  had  not  been  confirmed  amply  by  later  ex- 
perience and  riper  judgments,  and  if  it  had  not 
inspired  in  the  juvenile  beholder  a  passion  for 
the  theater  which  was  to  prove  a  dominant  in- 
fluence throughout  his  future  life.  Moreover,  the 
fair  Lydia  and  her  associate  acrobatic  mimes 
were  typical  products  of  the  period  in  which  they 
throve,  when  the  old  order  of  the  stage,  dignified 
by  the  survival  of  the  literary  drama,  and  such 
players  as  the  Kembles,  Macready,  and  Edmund 
Kean,  was  slowly  but  surely  passing  away,  to  be 
replaced  by  a  dismal  and  prolonged  era  of  senti- 
mental or  violent  melodrama,  pseudo-romance, 
domestic  comedy  equally  destitute  of  truth  and 
reason,  knock-about  farce,  and  spectacular  frivol- 
ity. Of  this  mixture  burlesque,  in  its  best  estate, 
was  by  no  means  the  most  contemptible  element. 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Before  it  came  to  disregard  completely  its  proper 
functions  it  used  to  provide  some  effective  satire 
for  which  there  was  abundant  food  in  all  direc- 
tions. 

After  that  first  performance  of  "Jack  the 
Giant  Killer,"  I  became  a  more  or  less  constant 
frequenter  of  the  London  playhouses,  passing 
first,  under  guardianship,  through  a  course  of 
pantomimes — which  were  almost  always  preceded 
by  a  play  of  some  kind — and  then,  when  endowed 
with  a  larger  measure  of  personal  liberty,  paying 
delightful  visits,  many  of  which  were  all  the 
sweeter  for  being  surreptitious,  to  various 
"pits,"  especially  those  of  Old  Drury,  the  Hay- 
market,  the  Adelphi,  the  Princess's,  and  the 
Olympic.  Within  these  walls,  during  the  fifties 
and  the  sixties,  while  I  was  at  school  and  college, 
I  made  my  first  acquaintance  with  the  older 
classic  drama,  both  tragic  and  comic,  and  saw 
prominent  representatives  of  the  "old  school" — 
the  school  of  stock  companies,  hard  work,  and 
comparatively  small  pay — in  some  of  their  most 
successful  parts,  and  first  learned  the  distinction 
between  a  mere  performance  and  a  characteriza- 
tion. Most  of  these  old  actors  were  in  their 
prime  in  the  first  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury and  observed  the  traditions  of  the  eighteenth. 
Few  of  them  had  genius,  but  all  had  served  a 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

long  apprenticeship  and  knew  their  trade  thor- 
oughly, being  able  to  acquit  themselves  creditably, 
if  not  with  distinction,  in  any  line  of  dramatic 
business.  They  varied,  of  course,  in  intellectual 
and  technical  capacity,  as  do  the  actors  of  to- 
day. Some  of  them,  indisputably,  were  too  pre- 
cise, stiff,  and  mechanical  in  action,  adhered  too 
rigidly  to  arbitrary  methods,  and  used  conven- 
tional and  unsatisfying  symbols,  but  nearly  all 
displayed  a  clear  intelligence,  a  ready  control  of 
eloquent  and  appropriate  gesture,  and  the  faculty 
of  crisp,  fluent,  melodious  speech.  In  a  word, 
they  were  masters  of  those  accomplishments  es- 
sential to  the  proper  exercise  of  their  profession, 
in  which  most  of  our  modern  actors  are  con- 
spicuously deficient.  Among  them,  as  in  the 
contemporary  theater,  there  were  performers 
who  had  mistaken  their  calling,  caricatures  of 
their  order,  whose  absurd  affectations  made  them 
ridiculous  and  doubtless  suggested  the  immortal 
Crummies  family  to  Charles  Dickens.  Several  of 
them  lingered  before  the  footlights  up  to  a  very 
recent  date,  and  were  legitimate  objects  for  the 
satirical  shafts  of  the  younger  generation  of 
critics,  who  accepted  them  as  fair  exemplars  of 
that  "old  school"  of  which,  owing  to  the  happy 
accident  of  youth,  they  themselves  could  have  no 
personal  experience. 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

It  is  because  I  have  had  that  experience,  be- 
cause I  have  been  not  only  a  regular  theatergoer, 
but  a  theatrical  devotee  and  observer,  not  to  say 
a  student,  for  sixty  years  (nearly  twenty  years 
in  England  and  more  than  forty  in  this  country), 
that  I  have  been  moved  to  jot  down  these  random 
recollections,  with  the  convictions  that  have 
grown  out  of  them;  with  no  notion  of  writing 
either  a  compendious  history  or  a  philosophic 
treatise.  To  touch  even  lightly  upon  all  the 
salient  features  of  six  decades  of  theatrical  hap- 
penings would  require  far  more  time  and  space 
than  I  have  at  command.  To  add  to  insignificant 
details  the  dishonest  flatteries  and  the  meaning- 
less verbiage  of  which  the  vast  bulk  of  modern 
theatrical  writing  is  largely  compounded  would 
be  almost  criminal.  I  shall  speak  solely  of  mat- 
ters coming  under  my  personal  observation,  en- 
deavoring to  avoid,  as  far  as  possible,  the  beaten 
track,  in  the  hope  of  awakening  fresh  interest  in 
a  somewhat  hackneyed  subject  by  a  frank  and 
independent  treatment  of  it. 

And  this,  perhaps,  is  a  convenient  point  for  the 
statement  of  one  definite  conclusion  that  has  been 
forced  upon  me,  and  that  is  that  during  the  last 
fifty  years  the  art  of  acting  upon  the  English- 
speaking  stage  has  steadily  declined;  that,  judg- 
ing by  the  standards  which  prevailed  at  the  be- 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

ginning  of  that  period,  there  is  not  upon  the 
American  stage  to-day  a  single  player,  male  or 
female,  of  the  first  rank,  and  that  this  result  is 
due  chiefly  to  the  establishment  of  the  com- 
mercial star  and  circuit  system  by  speculative 
managers,  possessed  of  considerable  executive 
ability,  but,  as  a  rule,  devoid  of  artistic  knowl- 
edge, instincts,  or  ambition ;  partly  to  the  creation 
of  railroads,  which  have  made  the  circuit  system 
feasible,  and  partly  to  the  enormous  improve- 
ments in  mechanical  and  lighting  devices,  which 
have  increased  the  possibilities  of  spectacle  and 
thus  enabled  managers  to  attract  the  remu- 
nerative crowd,  with  whom  an  appeal  to  the  eye 
is  so  much  more  potent  than  an  appeal  to  the 
understanding  or  good  taste.  It  is  a  popular 
dogma  that  old  men  are  apt  to  underestimate  and 
decry  the  present  in  comparing  it  with  the  past 
— to  find  new  savors  insipid  and  inferior — but 
I  do  not  believe  that  I  can  be  justly  included  in 
that  category.  My  interest  in  the  theater  is  still 
keen,  in  spite  of  frequent  weariness  and  vexation 
of  spirit,  and  my  belief  in  its  infinite  potentiali- 
ties, if  wisely  conducted  as  an  agent  of  the  higher 
civilization,  is  as  profound  and  unshaken  as 
ever.  It  is  the  one  human  institution,  of  which 
all  the  arts  are  the  handmaids,  whose  peculiar 
privilege  it  is  to  illustrate  and  enforce  the  sound- 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

est  principles  of  art,  morality,  and  social  law, 
under  the  seductive  guise  of  entertainment.  It 
must  fascinate  or  amuse,  or  be  powerless  for 
good.  If  it  does  nothing  but  amuse,  it  is  worth- 
less and  probably  mischievous.  Horribly  mis- 
managed and  abused  for  many  years,  it  has  fallen 
into  depths  of  degradation,  lower  and  more 
poisonous,  if  less  frankly  coarse,  than  those 
reached  by  the  comedy  of  the  Eestoration.  But 
it  is  a  long  lane  that  has  no  turning.  Already 
there  are  signs,  daily  growing  stronger,  of  com- 
ing radical  changes  in  existing  conditions,  if  not 
of  a  general  reformation.  Among  these  are  the 
multiplying  perplexities,  and  difficulties,  and 
wavering  policies  of  the  syndicates,  whose  ex- 
pensive and  inferior  shows  are  finding  successful 
rivals  in  the  cheaper  and  more  honest  diversion 
of  vaudeville  and  the  "movies";  the  organiza- 
tion of  stock  companies  in  this  country  and  in 
England;  the  entrance  of  new  and  capable 
writers,  male  and  female,  into  the  dramatic  field, 
and  the  appearance  in  England  of  a  new  group 
of  young  and  promising  actors.  All  these  phe- 
nomena are  encouraging,  and  sometimes  I  in- 
dulge in  the  sanguine  dream  that  I  may  yet,  at 
the  end  of  life,  witness  something  like  a  revival 
of  what  was  best  in  the  old  dispensation  whose 
dying  throes  I  watched  in  my  adolescence. 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

But  opportunities  for  reflections  and  forecasts 
will  present  themselves  later.  The  immediate 
business  is  to  recover  the  thread  of  juvenile 
reminiscences.  The  earliest  of  these  are  con- 
nected either  with  the  pantomimes,  of  which  a 
great  variety  was  produced  every  Christmas, 
with  extravaganzas  or  other  ephemeral  pieces, 
which  would  afford  small  excuse  for  comment, 
even  if  the  memory  of  them  were  clear,  or  a 
boy's  opinion  valuable.  But  on  the  British  panto- 
mime in  general  of  fifty  years  ago,  as  an  institu- 
tion which  flourished  annually,  not  only  in  nearly 
all  the  regular  London  theaters,  but  in  scores  of 
the  larger  provincial  houses,  a  few  lines  may  not 
be  uninteresting.  Professedly  a  festival  for 
children,  attendance  upon  it — as  in  later  days 
upon  the  circus — became  a  habit  of  adults  who 
sought  in  it  from  year  to  year  a  renewal  of  their 
own  childish  delights.  I  found  pleasure  in  it  for 
nearly  twenty  years,  and  have  often  wondered 
why  a  form  of  entertainment  so  commercially 
profitable — as  George  L.  Fox  proved  it  to  be — 
never  took  permanent  root  in  New  York.  Like 
burlesque,  pantomime  seems  to  be  dying  out  in 
England — although  it  still  prospers  exceedingly  at 
Drury  Lane  and  elsewhere — probably  because  the 
quality  of  it  has  deteriorated.  At  the  time  of 
which  I  am  speaking,  and  up  to  1870,  it  presented 

8 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

attractions  of  a  very  varied  and,  in  their  way, 
excellent  kind.  Actors  of  good  capacity,  singers, 
dancers,  and  gymnasts  were  employed  in  the  first 
part,  in  which  one  of  the  old  nursery  fairy  tales, 
or  an  amalgamation  of  two  or  three  of  them,  was 
presented  in  a  spirit  of  grotesque  humor,  with 
an  occasional  coloring  of  romance. 

The  dialogue  generally  written  in  rhymed  verse, 
seasoned  with  puns  and  packed  with  topical  and 
political  allusions,  often  extremely  felicitous,  was 
furnished  by  practical  pen-men,  and  was  incom- 
parably superior  to  the  miserable  gibberish  which 
accompanies  the  jingles  of  modern  musical 
comedy.  For  many  years  the  Drury  Lane  pro- 
logues were  composed  by  E.  L.  Blanchard,  who 
had  a  vein  of  wit  somewhat  akin  to  that  of  W. 
S.  Gilbert.  Tom  Taylor,  long  the  dramatic  critic 
of  the  London  Times,  and  one  of  the  most  un- 
trustworthy judges  of  histrionic  merit  who  ever 
occupied  so  influential  a  position;  F.  S.  Burnand 
and  Mark  Lemon,  the  well-known  editors  of 
Punch;  H.  J.  Byron,  Harry  Leigh,  the  author  of 
that  extraordinary  comic  song,  "The  Twins," 
which  is  virtually  unknown  to  this  generation; 
James  Albery,  the  playwright,  and  many  other 
writers  of  similar  caliber  were  among  the  men 
who  displayed  their  wit  in  these  pantomime  in- 
troductions. Among  the  artists  who  provided 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

the  scenery  were  such  masters  of  color  and  de- 
sign as  Beverley,  Telbin,  and  Clarkson  Stansfield, 
and  some  of  their  creations  were  marvels  of 
imaginative  beauty. 

After  the  prologue,  which  constituted  the  main 
part  of  the  show,  lasting,  perhaps,  for  a  couple 
of  hours,  came  the  harlequinade,  rich  in  riotous 
fun  and  ingenious  mechanical  surprizes.  The 
clowning  of  such  buffoons  as  old  Tom  Matthews 
and  Charles  Lauri  was  not  unworthy  of  com- 
parison with  that  of  their  famous  predecessor, 
Grimaldi  himself,  and  was  greeted  with  enthusias- 
tic roars  of  approbation.  These  pantomimes  were, 
and  still  are,  always  produced  for  the  first  time  on 
Boxing  Night — the  night  after  Christmas — and 
it  was  no  child's  play  to  fight  one's  way  into  the 
pit  at  Drury  Lane  on  such  an  occasion.  A  long 
covered  passageway  then  led  to  the  ticket  office — 
as  it  probably  does  now — which  stood  behind  two 
mighty  doors  which  opened  inward.  These  were 
kept  closed  until  half  an  hour  before  the  begin- 
ning of  the  performance,  and  all  who  wished  to 
get  into  the  front  seats — among  the  very  best  in 
the  house — had  to  secure  a  place  in  front  of  them 
late  in  the  afternoon  or  very  early  in  the  evening 
and  hold  his  own  in  a  crowd  which  grew  more 
dense  with  every  succeeding  minute.  On  one 
well-remembered  Boxing  Night,  somewhere  in 

10 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

the  middle  sixties  (I  have  now  no  means  of 
verifying  the  exact  date),  I  had  gained  and  main- 
tained a  position  about  twenty  feet  from  the 
closed  barriers.  With  her  back  against  them, 
facing  the  mob,  stood  a  resolute  woman,  who, 
when  the  doors  were  opened,  naturally  was 
swept  from  her  feet  and  fell  before  the  rush,  the 
leaders  of  which  tumbled  on  top  of  her.  Over 
their  prostrate  bodies  poured  the  crowd  in  solid 
phalanx,  the  front  ranks  impelled  by  irresistible 
pressure  from  behind.  I  was  carried  inward  on 
the  flood,  never  feeling  my  feet,  fearing  that  my 
ribs  would  collapse,  but  all  unconscious  of  the 
unfortunates  beneath  me.  Getting  inside  the 
theater  I  hurdled  over  the  benches  to  the  front 
row,  where  I  recovered  my  breath,  and  did  not 
know  until  the  next  morning  that  of  the  persons 
who  had  been  trampled  upon  several  were  killed 
and  others  seriously  injured.  I  saw  other  pan- 
tomimes from  the  pit  after  that,  but  not  on  a 
Boxing  Night. 

Whether  pantomime  of  the  purely  British  type 
would  take  the  fancy  of  the  American  public  may 
well  be  doubted,  but  it  is  not  easy  to  think  of 
any  reason  why  a  modification  of  it  along  Ameri- 
can lines  should  not  prove  a  profitable  enterprise. 
Harmless  and  effective  theatrical  entertainment 
for  the  little  ones  is  among  the  crying  needs  of 

11 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

our  modern  civilization.  The  manager  supplying 
it  would  reap  vast  profit. 

The  fresh  enthusiasm  of  youth  is  utterly  sub- 
versive of  sound  judgment,  and  I  shall  not  pre- 
tend to  speak  authoritatively  concerning  per- 
formances which  I  saw  before  my  twentieth  year. 
That  is  not  a  judicious  age,  but  by  that  time  I 
had  served  a  pretty  long  apprenticeship  in 
theatergoing  and  had  acquired  some  small  power 
of  discrimination.  Already  theatrical  conditions 
were  changing.  Only  four  or  five  of  the  old 
stock  organizations  in  London  survived.  Chief 
among  them  was  the  company  at  the  Haymarket 
Theater,  under  J.  B.  Buckstone,  the  recognized 
home  of  the  higher  comedy  for  many  years;  the 
Adelphi,  largely  devoted  to  melodrama  under  the 
management  of  Benjamin  Webster,  and  Sadler's 
Wells,  where  the  mantle  of  the  illustrious  Samuel 
Phelps — of  whom  more  hereafter — had  descended 
to  Miss  Marriott  and  others. 

Of  lesser  note  were  the  companies  headed  by 
Sarah  Lane  at  the  huge  Victoria  Theater,  in  Hox- 
ton — where  fried  fish  was  served  in  the  boxes  as 
a  relish  to  dramatic  art — and  the  Surrey  Theater, 
under  the  direction  of  Creswick  and  Shepherd. 
These  two  were  reckoned  among  the  transpontine 
houses,  and  catered  to  enormous  audiences  of 
the  poorest  kind  drawn  from  the  working-classes, 

12 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

small  tradesfolk,  mechanics,  costers,  and  others. 
The  entertainments  in  them,  naturally,  were  as 
a  rule  of  a  popular  kind,  consisting  of  spectacles, 
screaming  farce,  sentimental  domestic  plays,  and 
highly  colored  melodramas,  but  the  actors,  espe- 
cially the  low  comedians,  were  thoroughly  capable, 
and  Shakespearean  tragedies  and  comedies  and 
other  standard  pieces  were  not  infrequently  the 
principal  dishes  in  a  theatrical  menu  of  great 
variety  and  abundance.  In  those  days  it  was 
not  uncommon  to  find  a  tragedy,  a  comedy  and 
a  couple  of  farces  upon  the  programme,  and 
the  spectators  sat  with  unflagging  satisfaction 
through  them  all.  And  the  representations,  if  sel- 
dom brilliant,  were  as  seldom  slovenly  or  incom- 
plete. Actors  had  to  work  for  their  living  then, 
many  of  them  appearing  in  three  or  four  widely 
contrasted  parts  in  a  single  evening.  Sometimes 
the  cast  was  headed  by  a  visiting  player  of  the 
first  rank — the  beginning  of  the  star  system 
which  has  since  been  so  prodigiously  and  mis- 
chievously developed — who  was  generally  assured 
of  satisfactory  support.  Unless  I  am  mistaken, 
Macready  himself  acted  at  the  Surrey;  Phelps 
certainly  did.  Mrs.  Lane  and  Messrs.  Shepherd 
and  Creswick  were  all  sound  interpreters  of 
Shakespearean  character. 
I  have  not  included  the  company  which  for 

13 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

several  years  supported  Charles  Kean  at  the 
Princess's  Theater  among  the  regular  stock  com- 
panies, because  he  organized  it  for  his  own  spe- 
cial purpose,  and  added  to  it  or  subtracted  from 
it  as  occasion  required.  But  nevertheless  it  was 
the  stock  system  which  produced  the  accom- 
plished players  who  helped  to  make  his  manage- 
ment at  that  house  so  memorable.  This  was  the 
case  also  at  other  prominent  West  End  theaters, 
where  eminent  performers  were  supported  by 
scratch  companies  engaged  for  a  season  or  a  run. 
All  the  best  subordinate  performers  owed  their 
capacity  to  their  long  training  in  the  "stock," 
either  in  London  or  in  the  old  established 
provincial  theaters.  The  day  was  yet  to  come 
when  the  public  should  be  asked  to  welcome  the 
representation  of  ancient  or  modern  master- 
pieces— productions  of  the  latter  kind,  unfor- 
tunately, are  few  and  far  between — by  a  star  and 
a  bundle  of  sticks.  Now,  alas,  the  star  himself — 
or  herself — shines  only  with  a  fictitious  glitter, 
the  reflection  of  flaming  and  mendacious  adver- 
tisement. Most  of  our  contemporary  theatrical 
valuations  are  ridiculously  extravagant,  and  the 
stage  itself,  perhaps,  is  suffering  quite  as  much 
from  the  false  glamor  with  which  the  box-office 
agents  and  the  daily  press  have  conspired  to  in- 
vest it  as  from  any  other  particular  condition. 

14 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

It  is  the  fashion  to  describe  our  second  or  third 
rate  mummers  in  terms  which  would  be  flattering 
to  a  Siddons  or  a  Garrick  and  to  record  their 
petty  sayings  and  doings  as  if  these  were  actu- 
ally matters  of  public  importance  and  inter- 
est. How  many  of  the  names  of  existing  stage 
luminaries  which  now  confront  us  on  the  street 
posters  and  in  the  newspapers  will  be  remem- 
bered in  the  next  generation?  The  question  is 
easily  answered. 


15 


n 


CHARLES  KEAN,  J.  B.  BUCKSTONE,  AND  THE 
HAYMARKET  COMPANY 

CIBCTTMSTANCES  prevented  me  from  seeing 
Charles  Kean  upon  the  stage,  except  in  early 
childhood,  but  I  encountered  him  frequently  in 
public  places  during  his  declining  years,  and  he 
was  so  constantly  the  subject  of  discussion  in  the 
contemporary  press  and  among  my  personal 
acquaintance  that  I  feel  justified  in  framing  an 
estimate  of  him  founded  on  second-hand  but 
strongly  corroborated  information.  He  was  the 
subject  of  fervent  adulation  and  savage  attack, 
but  did  not  deserve  either.  Of  his  father's  erratic 
but  brilliant  genius  he  inherited  no  spark.  In 
stature  and  carriage  he  was  insignificant;  his 
visage  lacked  distinction,  though  he  had  good  eyes 
and  forehead;  his  voice  was  deficient  in  power 
and  range  and  his  utterance  was  faulty.  He 
turned  his  ns  and  ms  into  ds  and  bs.  As  Hamlet 
he  said,  in  the  play  scene,  "  'Tis  a  Vedetiad 
story — His  dabe  is  Godzago — He  poisod  hib  in 
the  garded,"  and  so  forth.  But  he  was  an  ener- 
getic, capable,  ambitious  man,  with  scholarly  and 

16 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

archeological  tastes,  artistic  and  theatrical  in- 
stincts, and  a  plentiful  supply  of  self-reliance. 

His  wife,  Ellen  Tree,  an  actress  of  uncommon 
ability,  if  not  of  positive  genius,  and  in  her 
prime,  before  she  grew  stout  and  unwieldy,  a 
woman  of  notable  beauty  and  dignified  charm, 
was  his  " better  half"  in  more  senses  than  one. 
They  were  a  devoted  couple,  and  their  long 
wedded  life,  untouched  by  scandal,  was  an  ex- 
ample of  conjugal  happiness  and  respectability 
not  too  common  in  the  profession.  She  humored 
his  vanity,  which  was  colossal,  and  held  him  in 
complete  but  unconscious  subjection.  She  stooped 
to  conquer.  No  adulation  was  too  gross  for 
Kean's  self-esteem.  He  writhed  beneath  the  lash 
of  criticism.  The  most  glowing  praise  gave  him 
no  satisfaction  if  qualified  ever  so  craftily  with 
exceptions.  He  remonstrated,  almost  tearfully, 
with  friendly  critics  who  ventured  to  suggest  that 
his  performances,  even  in  minor  respects,  might 
possibly  be  susceptible  of  improvement.  It  is 
recorded  of  him  that  he  called  one  of  them  aside, 
and  read  aloud  a  rhapsodical  eulogy  of  himself 
that  had  been  printed  in  some  little  Grub  Street 
publication,  adding,  "That,  sir,  is  what  I  call 
honest  criticism." 

Some  of  the  critical  shafts  discharged  at  him 
carried  a  very  sharp  sting.  When  he  played 

17 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

King  John  at  the  Princess's — a  character  in 
which  Macready  had  achieved  one  of  his  greatest 
triumphs — he  engaged  Phelps  to  support  him  in 
the  part  of  Hubert.  Commenting  in  Punch  upon 
the  representation,  Douglas  Jerrold  remarked 
that  Mr.  Phelps  had,  in  the  most  generous  man- 
ner, publicly  presented  Mr.  Kean,  upon  his  own 
stage,  with  a  complete  extinguisher.  The  fact  is 
that  few  authoritative  critics  of  his  day  ever  re- 
garded Charles  Kean  as  a  great  actor,  although 
they  praised  his  painstaking  intelligence  and  his 
zeal  and  liberality  as  a  producer.  No  great  charac- 
ter, either  in  tragedy  or  comedy,  has  been  associ- 
ated with  his  name.  The  Lear  and  Abel  Drugger 
of  Garrick,  the  Shylock  of  Edmund  Kean,  the  Mac- 
beth of  Macready,  the  Sir  Peter  Teazle  of  Chip- 
pendale, the  Sir  Pertinax  McSycophant  (in  "The 
Man  of  the  World")  of  Phelps,  the  Sir  Giles 
Overreach,  of  E.  L.  Davenport,  and  the  Hamlet 
of  Edwin  Booth — the  list  might  be  extended  al- 
most indefinitely — are  constantly  quoted  as  his- 
trionic masterpieces,  but  no  single  creation  of 
Charles  Kean  was  preeminent.  His  Hamlet,  the 
most  successful  of  his  Shakespearean  interpreta- 
tions, was  a  fairly  able  and  elaborately  finished 
bit  of  work,  but  owed  much  of  its  popularity  to 
the  excellence  of  his  support  and  the  richness  of 
his  pictorial  setting.  It  was  in  romantic  melo- 

18 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

drama,  such  as  "Louis  XI"  and  "The  Corsican 
Brothers,"  that  his  talents  were  displayed  to 
the  best  advantage. 

The  conspicuous  position  which  he  long  oc- 
cupied in  the  English  dramatic  world  may  be 
easily  explained.  He  appeared  on  the  scene  in 
a  period  of  tragic  decline.  Macready,  who  was 
proud  of  his  art,  but  who  despised  his  profession, 
had  acquired  a  competence  and  was  about  to  seek 
in  seclusion  relief  from  the  pangs  of  envy  and 
the  innumerable  frets  to  which  his  unhappy  dis- 
position perpetually  exposed  him;  the  Kemble 
group  was  disappearing;  Phelps,  devoted  to  his 
great  work  in  Islington,  was  yet  virtually  un- 
known, except  in  secondary  characters,  to  the 
"West  End  of  London,  and  thus  he  had  no  rival 
to  contend  with  him  in  the  Shakespearean  field. 
Moreover,  he  had  the  prestige  of  his  father's 
name,  had  been  educated  at  Eton,  where  he 
formed  social  connections  which  were  invaluable 
to  him  afterward,  and  he  had  money.  He  was, 
as  it  were,  born  to  the  purple,  and  was  generally 
regarded  as  the  providential  champion  who  was 
to  revive  the  fading  glories  of  the  classic  stage. 
And  it  may  be  admitted  freely  that  he  made  good 
use  of  his  opportunities. 

Though  a  second-rate  performer  himself — he 
had,  it  may  be  noted,  served  but  a  brief  apprentice- 

19 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

ship  in  the  stock  companies — he  was  an  indus- 
trious student  of  the  traditions  and  mechanism 
of  the  theater,  and  had  an  almost  pedantic  rever- 
ence for  the  verities  of  architecture,  costume,  and 
all  archeological  details.  He  strongly  rebuked 
an  actor  who  was  playing  the  porter  in  "Mac- 
beth" for  failing  to  direct  the  attention  of  the 
audience  to  the  keys  which  he  was  carrying, 
which  were  copies  from  a  rare  antique  pattern. 
A  master  of  all  traditional  poses  and  points,  he 
knew  how  this  or  that  distinguished  performer 
had  worn  his  bonnet,  drawn  a  glove  on  or  off,  or 
fingered  the  hilt  of  his  sword.  His  care  in  such 
matters  was  meticulous,  and  in  all  his  work  there 
was  far  more  evidence  of  calculation  than  of  in- 
spiration. He  was  a  stickler  also  for  the  text — 
although  he  did  not  hesitate  to  cut  it — and  never 
considered  cost  in  preparing  a  spectacle.  His 
Shakespearean  pageants  excelled  the  most  notable 
productions  of  Macready,  in  magnificence,  in 
accuracy,  and  often  in  the  capacity  of  his  sup- 
porting casts.  He  was  frequently  outplayed  by  his 
subordinates,  though  his  egotism  preserved  him 
from  all  consciousness  of  the  fact.  He  is  entitled 
to  every  credit  for  keeping  the  literary  and  poetic 
drama  before  the  public,  and  for  his  dignified  and 
picturesque  treatment  of  it,  but  it  is  a  question 
whether  in  the  long  run  he  did  not  do  the  stage 

20 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

more  harm  than  good.  His  demonstration  as  an 
actor-manager  of  the  efficacy  of  spectacle  with 
the  crowd  as  a  substitute  for  fine  acting  was  a 
lesson  that  was  not  lost  upon  his  immediate  suc- 
cessors and  was  productive  of  infinite  mischief. 
Scenery  was  developed  at  the  cost  of  histrionism, 
until,  in  the  end,  commercial  managers  found  it 
profitable  to  ignore  acting  altogether  in  such 
glittering  trash  as  "Babil  and  Bijou"  or  "The 
Black  Crook." 

The  Haymarket  Theater  was  the  recognized 
home  of  polite  comedy  in  London  for  more  than 
a  generation,  under  the  management  of  John 
Baldwin  Buckstone.  Its  reputation  was  well  main- 
tained throughout  the  sixties,  although  the  bril- 
liancy of  its  representations  had  been  somewhat 
diminished  by  the  death  or  desertion  of  able  per- 
formers. It  was  to  London  what  Wallack's,  in 
its  palmy  days,  was  to  New  York.  There  the 
connoisseur  could  depend  upon  seeing  an  old  com- 
edy— if  one  happened  to  be  on  the  programme — 
played  in  the  appropriate  manner,  with  the  formal 
polished  style  to  match  the  artificial  speech,  with 
robust  but  unforced  humor  and  smooth,  unhesi- 
tating action.  He  could  be  certain  also  of  hear- 
ing good  dialogue  crisply  delivered  with  due  at- 
tention to  rhythm  and  emphasis.  The  ridiculous 
notion  that  plays  of  a  bygone  period  should  be 

21 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

recast  and  presented  in  modern  fashion  to  con- 
form to  modern  habits  and  ideas  had  not  then 
been  broached.  It  originated  probably  with  com- 
mercial managers,  who,  being  at  their  wit's  end 
for  new  plays,  dreamed  of  profits  to  be  made  by 
a  resort  to  the  famous  older  pieces,  but  realized 
the  impossibility  of  collecting,  at  short  notice,  a 
company  of  players  capable  of  presenting  them 
properly  or  effectively,  without  a  preliminary 
course  of  instruction  which  they  were  utterly 
unable  to  supply.  When  once  the  idea  was  sug- 
gested that  even  if  there  were  no  actors  to  fit 
the  plays,  the  plays  might  be  renovated  to  fit  the 
actors,  it  was  not  long  before  it  was  put  into 
execution. 

There  was  no  difficulty  in  finding  complacent 
adapters,  ready  to  undertake  the  job  of  modify- 
ing and  condensing  the  action,  pruning  and  para- 
phrasing the  dialogue  in  order  to  make  it  more 
amenable  to  untrained  diction,  and  devising  new 
"business"  for  the  aggrandizement  of  " stars" — 
in  the  near  future  Augustin  Daly  was  to  become 
one  of  the  most  conspicuous  of  these  offenders — 
heedless  of  the  fact  that  in  this  process  of  trans- 
formation and  emasculation  the  spirit  and  essence 
of  the  original,  with  most  of  its  literary,  his- 
torical, and  typical  value,  must  be  ruthlessly  de- 
stroyed. And  so  it  came  to  pass  in  the  progress 

22 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

of  the  years  that  the  unsophisticated  public  was 
beguiled  with  so-called  revivals  of  the  "  legiti- 
mate" drama  which  actually  were  nondescript 
perversions  of  the  original  article,  often  enter- 
taining enough  in  their  way,  but  valueless  from 
the  literary,  artistic,  or  histrionic  point  of  view. 
But  at  the  Haymarket,  in  the  period  under  con- 
sideration, the  old  comedies  —  except  for  the 
"cuts"  sanctioned  by  the  best  stage  usage — 
were  given  as  they  were  written  and  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  old  scene  plans  and  directions. 
There  were  no  elaborate  and  costly  interiors,  no 
enclosed  box  scenes,  flats  and  wings  were  shifted 
before  the  eyes  of  the  spectators,  and  the  players 
made  their  exits  and  their  entrances  through  the 
first,  second,  or  third  groove.  The  realism,  of 
course,  was  less  than  in  these  more  fanciful  and 
luxurious  scenic  days,  but  the  vexatious  stage 
waits  of  the  present  were  avoided,  while  the 
illusion  of  actuality  was,  for  all  practical  pur- 
poses, as  well  maintained  as  it  is  now.  All  stage 
scenery,  from  the  crudest  daub  to  the  most  ex- 
quisitely finished  pictures  exhibited  by  Henry 
Irving,  or  the  symbolical  and  impressionistic 
fantasies  of  Gordon  Craig,  are  necessarily  and 
manifestly  a  bit  of  make-believe,  and  at  its  best 
can  only  contribute  to  the  illusion  created  by  the 
actors,  the  main  dependence  of  the  theater. 

23 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

It  was  not  my  good  fortune  to  see  many  of  the 
standard  comedies  as  interpreted  at  the  Hay- 
market.  The  representations  which  are  most  dis- 
tinct in  my  memory  are  those  of  "  Twelfth 
Night, "  ' '  The  Rivals, "  « '  The  School  for  Scandal, ' ' 
and  "She  Stoops  to  Conquer."  I  have  forgotten 
the  names  and  even  the  aspect  of  many  of  the 
principal  actors,  but  several  of  the  characteriza- 
tions are  still  vivid  to  me.  Among  them  are  the 
Sir  Benjamin  Backbite  and  Tony  Lumpkin  of 
Buckstone,  the  Crabtree  of  Henry  Compton,  the 
Sir  Peter  Teazle,  Sir  Anthony  Absolute,  and  Old 
Hardcastle  of  William  Chippendale,  and  the  Mrs. 
Candor  of  Mrs.  Chippendale.  I  must  have  seen 
"As  You  Like  It,"  having  a  clear  vision  of 
Compton  as  Touchstone,  but  can  recall  nothing 
else  in  the  performance.  Buckstone  was  a  little 
rotund  man,  with  a  squeaking,  nasal  voice  and 
merry  twinkling  eyes  on  either  side  of  a  tip-tilted 
nose.  He  was  an  admirable  low  comedian,  the 
very  embodiment  of  comic  geniality.  The  appa- 
rition of  his  face  in  the  wings  was  enough  to  set 
his  audience  in  a  roar.  But  he  did  not,  like  many 
inferior  farceurs,  trust  entirely  to  his  personality 
for  his  stage  effects.  He  could  not  disguise  his 
identity,  but  he  was  an  actor  and  changed  his 
manners  with  his  impersonations.  His  Ague- 
cheek  was  dry,  inane,  droll,  and  Shakespearean. 

24 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

His  Tony  Lumpkin  was  a  rustic  hobbledehoy, 
loutish,  prankish,  selfish,  cunning,  yet  not  alto- 
gether ungenerous  or  unamiable.  The  complex 
elements  in  it  were  artfully  harmonized,  and  it 
retained  the  buoyancy  of  youth  after  he  was  a 
septuagenarian.  It  was  in  such  whimsical  trifles 
as  Maddison  Morton's  "Box  and  Cox"  that  he 
gave  the  fullest  play  to  his  natural  humor. 

His  associate  in  this  absurdity  was  Henry 
Compton,  and  the  amount  of  fun  which  the  pair 
contrived  to  extract  from  it  was  amazing.  On 
the  printed  page  the  piece  seems  absolutely  fool- 
ish and  dull,  but  in  action  it  is  full  of  comic  situa- 
tions, which  these  experienced  and  highly  trained 
actors  elaborated  and  emphasized  with  an  ex- 
traordinary wealth  of  varied  resource.  In  their 
most  extravagant  moods  they  kept  within  the 
limits  of  plausibility,  the  intervals  between  their 
broadest  strokes  being  filled  with  delicate  and  sug- 
gestive byplay.  The  general  effect  was  helped 
by  the  contrast  between  their  methods.  Compton 
was  tall,  lean,  grave,  and  dry  as  a  chip,  with  keen, 
intellectual  features.  Buckstone  was  unctuous, 
shrill,  brisk,  and  demonstrative,  and  altogether 
plebeian.  The  cooperation  between  them  was 
perfect,  and  during  their  performance  the  merri- 
ment never  slackened  for  an  instant.  The  subse- 
quent popularity  of  the  farce,  which  in  spite  of 

25 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

its  silliness  came  to  be  regarded  as  a  sort  of 
classic,  was  largely,  if  not  entirely,  due  to  their 
interpretation  of  it,  upon  which,  all  later  repeti-  • 
tions  were  founded.  It  is  the  fashion  nowadays 
to  deride  farce  as  something  unworthy  of  our 
cultivated  attention.  But  the  best  of  it  was  more 
human  and  no  more  foolish  than  most  of  our 
musical  comedy,  and  when  enacted  with  such 
sincerity  and  executive  skill  as  was  displayed  by 
these  old  Haymarket  players  it  acquired  a  definite 
artistic  value. 

Chippendale,  well  known  in  New  York  in  his 
younger  days,  was  a  pillar  of  the  Haymarket 
company  for  many  years.  In  many  respects  he 
might  be  compared  with  John  Gilbert.  In  Lon- 
don he  disputed  preeminence  in  the  higher 
comedy  with  Phelps  and  the  first  and  second 
Farren.  I  saw  him  act  repeatedly.  He  had  not 
the  inches,  the  bulk,  the  physical  force,  or  the 
magnificent  volcanic  choler  of  Gilbert,  but  he  was 
a  finished  type  of  the  old-style  player,  with  an 
expressive,  attractive,  mobile  face,  good  voice, 
figure,  and  carriage.  His  diction  was  admirable, 
his  gesture  free,  graceful,  and  significant,  his 
manner  refined  and  dignified.  He  had  control 
of  both  passion  and  pathos  and  a  fount  of  mellow 
humor,  which,  even  in  old  age,  preserved  its 
freshness  and  whimsicality. 

26 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

His  masterpiece,  perhaps,  was  his  Sir  Peter 
Teazle,  a  most  vital  picture  of  an  elderly  beau, 
a  trifle  precise,  formal,  and  cynical,  but  thor- 
oughly well  bred  and  courteous,  obstinate,  irasci- 
ble, and  generous.  His  cynical  utterances  were 
delightful.  To  Lady  Teazle  his  behavior 
throughout  was  paternal  rather  than  conjugal, 
fond  and  wistful,  not  adoring.  In  the  quarrel 
scene  his  transition  from  a  mood  of  tender  banter 
to  one  of  passionate  and  disgusted  protest  was 
marked  by  most  skilful  and  humorous  gradations. 
In  the  screen  scene  he  was  manfully  pathetic  in 
his  confidences  with  Joseph,  exhilaratingly  mis- 
chievous in  his  explanations  to  Charles,  and  a 
striking  picture  of  surprise  and  mortification 
mingled  with  anger  and  contempt  after  the 
climactic  revelation.  The  whole  embodiment  was 
a  memorable  bit  of  portraiture.  His  Sir  Anthony 
Absolute  was  a  companion  study  of  almost  equal 
merit.  The  part,  of  course,  is  much  simpler  than 
that  of  Sir  Peter,  and  his  comprehension  of  it 
was  complete,  but  in  the  "frenzies,"  as  Sir 
Anthony  called  them,  he  fell  short  of  the  eruptive 
power  of  either  Phelps  or  Gilbert.  As  Hard- 
castle  he  was  the  equal  of  anybody  at  any  time, 
a  splendid  specimen  of  the  English  country  gen- 
tleman, simple,  with  a  natural  courtesy,  free  from 
all  affectation,  shrewd  without  suspicion,  frank, 

27 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

hospitable,  peppery,  but  full  of  the  milk  of  human 
kindness. 

But  these  Haymarket  representations,  after  all, 
were  more  noteworthy  for  their  all-around 
efficiency  than  for  the  brilliancy  of  individual 
achievements.  Each  member  of  the  company  was 
competent  for  the  work  he  had  to  do  and  fitted 
neatly  in  the  general  scheme.  There  were  no 
loose  or  creaking  joints  in  the  machinery,  the 
appropriate  atmosphere  was  preserved  from 
first  to  last,  there  were  no  awkward  or  painful 
inconsistencies.  The  stage  managers  of  those 
days,  if  not  themselves  expert  actors,  were,  at 
least,  experts  in  the  whole  art  of  acting  and  of 
stage  production,  knew  how  things  ought  to  be 
done,  and  could  and  did  show  the  actual  players 
how  to  do  them.  They  licked  tyros  into  shape 
and  converted  wooden  supernumeraries  into  liv- 
ing human  beings.  They  had  the  faculty  of 
blending  discordant  details  into  one  harmonious 
whole.  Such  men  as  Macready,  Charles  Kean, 
Buckstone,  Ben  Webster,  Phelps,  and  John  Eyder 
were  always,  to  a  large  extent,  their  own  stage- 
managers,  instructing  their  assistants  concerning 
the  preliminaries  and  putting  on  the  finishing 
touches  themselves. 

They  were  exacting  taskmasters.  A  new  piece 
was  rehearsed  for  weeks  until  all  the  minor  per- 

28 


Q  'g 


p 

«    * 


a 

o 
U 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

formers  could  go  through  all  the  carefully  pre- 
scribed evolutions  with  mechanical  exactness,  and 
were  letter  perfect.  Woe  to  the  unfortunate  actor 
who  was  not  on  his  appointed  spot  and  instant 
in  his  speech  when  he  was  a  factor  in  one  of 
Macready's  laboriously  calculated  "  points. " 
Buckstone,  too,  could  be  a  martinet  in  these  mat- 
ters, realizing  that  rapidity  and  smoothness  are 
the  chief  essentials  of  stage  illusion.  And  he 
was  as  conscientious  in  the  preparation  of  new 
plays  as  he  was  in  that  of  classic  masterpieces. 
His  company,  after  a  spell  of  old  comedy,  fell 
into  this  modern  style  with  ready  adaptability. 
"The  Overland  Route"  of  Tom  Taylor,  a  clever 
but  by  no  means  dazzling  piece,  became  extraor- 
dinarily effective  in  their  hands  and  added 
greatly  to  the  reputation  of  its  author.  The  cast 
included,  if  I  remember  rightly,  Buckstone, 
Compton,  W.  F.  Howe — then  in  his  prime — -Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Chippendale,  and  Charles  Mathews. 

Equally  notable  was  the  first  performance  at 
the  Haymarket  of  that  silly  but  long-lived  play, 
"An  American  Cousin,"  in  which  E.  A.  Sothern 
won  fame  and  fortune  as  Lord  Dundreary.  All 
American  theatergoers,  even  the  youngest  (as 
E.  H.  Sothern  recently  revived  it),  know  some- 
thing of  that  play  and  its  history.  But  no  one 
who  did  not  see  the  elder  Sothern 's  performance 

29 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

in  London  in  the  sixties  can  appreciate  the  true 
artistic  value  of  it,  or  understand  the  serious 
critical  commendation  bestowed  upon  it. 

During  the  Crimean  War  the  soldiers  of  the 
British  army  were  allowed  to  grow  their  beards, 
and  after  peace  had  been  proclaimed  it  became 
the  fashion  among  the  heavy  "swells"  of  the 
Household  Cavalry  to  cultivate  with  the  mus- 
tache the  long  side  whiskers  called  by  the  vulgar 
"Piccadilly  weepers."  Many  of  these  warriors, 
the  pampered  darlings  of  aristocratic  maidens, 
affected  a  languid,  lackadaisical  manner,  and  a 
drawling,  haw-haw  style  of  speech  which  was 
essentially  contemptible  and  ridiculous.  They 
were  conspicuous  objects  in  the  parks  and  in  the 
stalls  of  the  theater.  When  civilians  began  to 
copy  them  they  soon  cut  off  their  whiskers  and 
talked  more  like  men  and  less  like  donkeys.  In 
spite  of  their  absurdity  they  were  polished  gen- 
tlemen. Sothern  perceived  the  comic  opportunity 
in  them  when,  to  his  disgust,  he  was  cast  origi- 
nally by  Laura  Keene  in  the  small  part  of  Dun- 
dreary in  "Our  American  Cousin"  in  New  York, 
dressed  it  in  imitation  of  one  of  these  military 
exquisites,  and  resolved  to  play  it  in  the  spirit 
of  caricature. 

Coming  on  the  stage  at  the  final  dress  rehearsal 
(I  knew  him  well  and  am  telling  the  story  from 

30 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

his  own  lips),  he  caught  his  toe  in  the  carpet  and 
nearly  fell  headlong,  saving  himself  by  an  im- 
provised skip.  Miss  Keene  saw  the  skip,  but  not 
the  cause  of  it,  and  asked  indignantly  whether 
that  was  his  idea  of  a  British  nobleman.  He, 
piqued  by  the  rebuke,  replied  in  the  affirmative, 
repeated  the  skip  intentionally  at  the  first  public 
performance,  and  made  the  hit  that  led  to  for- 
tune. Virtually  his  impersonation  was  a  bur- 
lesque. By  the  time  the  play  reached  London  his 
part  had  been  expanded  until  it  was  the  central 
feature  and  he  acted  it  in  a  vein  of  light  comedy 
with  just  enough  exaggeration  to  impart  the  tang 
of  satire  to  gentle  caricature.  So  near  to  life 
did  he  get  that  Punch  published  a  picture  show- 
ing half  a  dozen  cavalrymen — potential  Dun- 
drearys— in  the  stalls  discussing  their  imitator 
on  the  stage.  His  embodiment  was  a  veritable 
creation,  well  proportioned,  consistent,  finished  to 
the  nails,  a  most  felicitous  portrayal  of  a  foolish, 
kindly,  well-mannered,  perplexed,  and  helpless 
fop.  In  deftness,  delicacy,  veracity,  and  mirth- 
provoking  capacity  it  would  compare  favorably 
with  some  of  the  most  notable  achievements  in 
comedy.  Afterward  I  went  to  see  him  play  the 
part  in  New  York — not  many  years  later — and 
found  him  indulging  in  all  sorts  of  buffoonery, 
which  was  rewarded  with  roars  and  shouts  of 

31 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

approval.  The  polish,  the  refinement,  the  de- 
lightful delicacy  and  finish  had  been  replaced  by 
the  cheapest  of  farcical  expedients.  When  I 
asked  him  why  he  risked  his  reputation  with 
such  clowning,  he  replied  that  he  had  to  give  his 
audience  what  it  wanted,  that  the  American  pub- 
lic had  its  own  notions  about  the  British  aris- 
tocracy, and  that  his  London  conception  would 
be  neither  understood  nor  accepted.  Conditions 
have  changed  since  then. 


32 


Ill 


IT  was  at  Sadler's  Wells  Theater,  in  the 
despised  suburb  of  Islington,  that  the  ideal  work 
of  the  stock  company  was  done  in  the  days  of 
my  boyhood.  There  Samuel  Phelps  reigned  for 
seventeen  years,  and  exemplified,  in  a  more  strik- 
ing way  than  any  other  manager — Macready, 
Kean,  and  Henry  Irving  not  excepted  —  the 
readiness  of  the  masses  to  support  the  higher 
drama.  The  old  Prince  of  Wales 's  Theater,  be- 
fore the  occupation  of  it  by  the  Bancrofts,  was 
not  so  disreputable  a  hole  as  "The  Wells"  when 
Phelps  took  it,  and  was  in  a  far  more  promising 
neighborhood.  Islington,  indeed,  was  densely 
populous,  but  exceedingly  poor  and  shabby.  It 
abounded  in  small  shops,  taverns,  cheap  lodging- 
houses  and  slums,  and  small  tradesmen,  me- 
chanics, the  commoner  kind  of  clerks,  peddlers, 
innumerable  wage-earners  of  different  kinds, 
with  a  plentiful  sprinkling  of  degraded  "sports," 
constituted  the  great  bulk  of  the  inhabitants. 

33 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

"The  Wells"  had  been  devoted  to  what  would 
now  be  described  as  vaudeville,  to  tenth-rate  box- 
ing matches,  comic  concerts,  acrobatic  shows,  and 
so  on.  It  was  one  of  the  dingiest,  dirtiest,  and 
in  every  way  most  objectionable  resorts  imagin- 
able. 

When  Phelps  secured  control  of  it  and  an- 
nounced his  intention  of  making  it  the  home  of 
the  classic  drama,  his  friends  thought  him  insane. 
He  was  without  influence  or  strong  financial  or 
social  backing.  He  was  well  known  as  an  actor, 
— but  not  in  Islington — for  he  had  long  been  the 
right  hand  of  Macready,  who  fully  realized  his 
abilities,  dreaded  his  rivalry,  and  deliberately, 
as  he  himself  confessed,  tried  to  keep  him  in  the 
background,  saying  that  he  was  young  and  could 
afford  to  wait.  The  selfish  remark  was  eminently 
characteristic  of  the  old  actor,  but  there  can  be 
no  doubt  that  the  experience  which  Phelps  gained 
in  that  prolonged  service  was  invaluable  to  him 
in  after  years.  I  was  not  out  of  the  nursery 
when  the  Sadler's  Wells  campaign  began,  and 
was  only  a  biggish  boy  when  it  ended.  The  only 
representation  I  ever  saw  there  was  "A  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream,"  the  excellence  of  which 
I  was  far  too  young  to  understand.  But  later  on 
I  spent  many  long  days  among  the  newspaper 
files  in  the  old  Jerusalem  Chamber  in  the  City  of 

34 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

London  and  greedily  devoured  the  contemporary 
criticisms  of  that  wonderful  series  of  revivals, 
which  included  all  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  ex- 
cept two  or  three,  and  of  many  of  the  old  Eliza- 
bethans, Massinger,  Ford,  Fletcher,  Otway,  Mar- 
lowe, and  others,  to  say  nothing  of  notable 
modern  works  by  such  writers  as  Talfourd, 
Browning,  Sheil,  and  Bulwer-Lytton.  Of  this 
period  I  can  say  nothing  from  personal  knowl- 
edge— I  am  writing  solely  from  memory  and  my 
own  notes,  with  a  studious  avoidance  of  books 
of  reference — but  the  historical  records  are  open 
to  all. 

Phelps  was  continuously  successful  from  the 
moment  he  first  raised  his  curtain  with  a  revival 
of  " Macbeth."  From  his  "pit"  and  galleries 
he  received  solid  and  unwavering  support.  His 
profits  were  not  large,  for  his  expenses  were 
considerable  and  his  prices  low.  He  could  not 
have  indulged  in  costly  spectacle,  even  if  ne  had 
had  any  desire  to  do  so;  but  his  scenery  was 
sufficient,  his  costumes  accurate  if  inexpensive, 
while  his  company,  always  capable  from  top  to 
bottom,  included  at  different  times  most  of  the 
remaining  well-known  players  who  had  served 
their  novitiate  under  the  Kembles,  Macready,  and 
the  Keans.  To  the  illiterate  denizens  of  Isling- 
ton, or  most  of  them,  his  representations  must 

35 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

have  been  strange  and  phenomenal,  but  they 
hailed  them  with  enthusiasm  and  soon  learned  to 
applaud  them  with  discrimination.  Before  long 
they  furnished  the  most  expert  and  exacting 
Shakespearean  audiences  in  London.  There  has 
never  been  a  more  striking  instance  of  the  educa- 
tional power  of  the  theater  or  of  the  natural  ca- 
pacity of  the  masses  to  comprehend  and  their  will- 
ingness to  pay  for  what  is  noblest  and  best  in  the 
drama.  Phelps  had  virtually  won  his  victory  before 
the  fashionable  West  End  of  the  town  awoke  to  a 
realization  of  the  intellectual  and  dramatic  feast 
that  he  was  providing,  and  began  to  make  pil- 
grimages to  Islington,  which  elsewhere  was 
already  recognized  as  the  Mecca  of  all  Shake- 
speareans. 

It  was  in  the  later  sixties,  when  Phelps,  weary- 
ing of  managerial  anxieties,  but  still  in  fullest 
vigor,  had  retired  from  the  house  which  he  had 
raised  to  enduring  fame,  that  I  had  frequent  op- 
portunities of  seeing  him  and  many  of  his  lead- 
ing associates,  in  various  London  theaters,  in  a 
number  of  their  most  admired  parts.  Among 
these  players  were  Mrs.  Warner,  the  first  Lady 
Macbeth  at  The  Wells  and  one  of  Phelps 's  most 
able  co-workers;  Mrs.  Charles  Young  (afterward 
Mrs.  Hermann  Vezin),  Miss  Atkinson,  Miss 
Marriott,  William  Creswick,  Henry  Marston, 

36 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Fred.  Bobinson,  James  Anderson,  John  Eyder, 
and  Walter  Lacy,  each  one  of  them  a  trained 
actor  of  the  first  class. 

In  writing  of  Phelps  I  fear  that  I  shall  lay 
myself  open  to  the  suspicion  of  hyperbole,  but 
each  word  shall  be  carefully  weighed.  I  do  not 
think  he  was  endowed  largely,  if  at  all,  with  the 
divine  gift  of  genius.  He  emitted  no  flashes  of 
lightning,  as  did  Edmund  Kean,  and  revealed  no 
such  grasp  of  the  poetic  and  philosophic  side  of 
Hamlet  as  did  Edwin  Booth.  But  it  is  my  de- 
liberate judgment  that  he  was  incomparably  the 
finest  actor  I  have  ever  seen,  with  the  single  ex- 
ception of  Salvini,  who  stands  by  himself  alone. 
It  has  always  been  a  cause  of  wonderment  to  me 
that,  notwithstanding  his  great  popularity,  his, 
admitted  achievements,  and  the  fervent  praise 
lavished  upon  him  by  the  most  authoritative 
critics  of  his  day,  he  should  have  fallen  into 
comparative  oblivion  so  soon  after  his  death. 
Possibly  it  may  be  accounted  for,  partly,  by  two 
facts:  one,  that  he  was  deficient  in  that  myste- 
rious attribute  of  personal  fascination  which  con- 
fers upon  some  actors  a  notoriety  altogether 
disproportionate  to  their  artistic  merits — the 
feminine  admiration  and  gossip  which  deck  the 
"matinee  darling"  with  fictitious  renown — and 
second,  that  he  never  gained,  nor  sought,  admis- 

37 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

sion  to  those  charmed  social  circles  in  the  rays 
of  whose  favor  Charles  Kean  loved  to  bask. 

Phelps  had  none  of  the  gloss  of  fashion  upon 
him.  Off  the  stage  he  conveyed  the  impression 
of  being  a  rough,  austere  man.  Yet  he  was  kindly 
and  humorous,  although  his  humor  was  of  a  some- 
what saturnine  order.  He  spent  his  youth  at 
the  printer's  case,  until  success  in  amateur 
theatricals  led  him  to  seek  fortune  on  the  stage. 
Years  of  arduous  and  unrewarded  struggle  fol- 
lowed, and  these  hardened  him.  An  industrious 
student  and  indefatigable  worker  himself,  he  was 
a  stern  taskmaster  when  master  of  his  own  thea- 
ter. He  could  be  tolerant  of  striving  inability, 
but  not  of  slovenliness.  In  person,  when  I  knew 
him,  he  presented  a  vigorous,  military  figure,  of 
medium  height,  broad,  spare,  and  athletic.  His 
head  was  well  set  upon  his  shoulders.  His  face 
was  powerful  and  peculiar  rather  than  pleasing. 
It  was  set  in  hard  lines,  though  remarkably  mobile 
and  flexible  when  he  was  acting.  A  high  fore- 
head, framed  in  long  black  locks  covering  the 
ears,  surmounted  a  pair  of  heavy,  straight  eye- 
brows, slanting  downward  from  the  center,  over 
small,  deep-set,  reflective  eyes,  which  could,  upon 
occasion,  open  very  widely.  The  mouth  was 
large,  thin-lipped,  and  resolute,  and  the  jaws  un- 
commonly broad  and  square.  In  repose  the  whole 

38 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

countenance  was  rigid  and  inexpressive,  but  in 
action  it  was  a  changeable  mask  of  rare  plas- 
ticity, a  fit  implement  for  a  player  of  unrivaled 
versatility. 

Many  stories  are  extant  concerning  the  Protean 
gifts  of  Garrick,  but  if  they  rest  upon  no  surer 
foundations  than  those  of  the  manifestly  exag- 
gerated estimates  of  him  as  a  Shakespearean 
devotee,  they  are  scarcely  entitled  to  unlimited 
credit.  Within  the  last  century,  at  any  rate,  no 
player  on  the  English-speaking  stage  has  demon- 
strated a  versatility  even  approaching  that  of 
Phelps.  The  best  contemporary  critics  differed 
in  opinion  as  to  whether  he  was  superior  in 
comedy  or  in  tragedy.  All  agreed  that  in  certain 
tragic  and  comic  characters  he  had  no  rival.  My 
own  view  is  that  he  was  equally  good  in  both  de- 
partments, and  I  wish  that  I  could  enter  into 
fuller  detail  than  the  time  and  space  at  my  dis- 
posal will  permit  to  prove  my  case.  I  saw  him 
more  than  twenty  times  in  all  in  eighteen  widely 
contrasted  characters,  which,  though  they  formed 
but  a  small  part  of  his  extraordinary  repertory, 
certainly  afforded  convincing  evidence  of  his  uni- 
versality. These  were  King  Lear,  Macbeth, 
Othello,  King  John,  Henry  IV,  Falstaff,  Justice 
Shallow,  Wolsey,  Sir  Peter  Teazle,  Sir  Anthony 
Absolute,  Sir  Pertinax  McSycophant,  Manfred, 

39 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

John  Bull,  Mr.  Oakley  in  "The  Jealous  Wife," 
King  James  and  Trapbois  in  Halliday's  "King 
of  Scots,"  Bertuccio,  and  Richelieu.  His  Lear 
(I  am  speaking  of  the  English-speaking  stage 
only)  was  one  of  the  most  satisfying  interpreta- 
tions of  that  unactable  conception  that  I  have 
seen.  It  was  ruggedly  majestic  in  the  opening 
scenes,  tempestuous  in  passion,  and  infinitely 
pitiful  in  the  shifting  humors  of  its  degradation 
and  despair.  In  vocal  and  elocutionary  resource 
it  was  superb.  It  combined  the  strength  of  For- 
rest with  the  subtle  intelligence  of  Edwin  Booth. 
The  latter  player,  in  later  years,  often  reminded 
me  of  Phelps  in  his  treatment  of  the  mad  scenes 
with  Edgar,  the  Fool  and  Kent,  and  sometimes 
excelled  him  in  ingenuity  of  emphasis.  Possibly, 
too,  he  sounded  a  richer  chord  of  pathos  than 
did  the  English  actor  in  the  recognition  of  Cor- 
delia, but  in  passages  of  tragic  force,  in  the  curse, 
for  instance,  and  the  address  to  the  elements, 
and  in  sustained  realism,  Phelps  carried  off  the 
palm.  He  distanced  such  meritorious  performers 
as  E.  L.  Davenport,  Lawrence  Barrett,  and  John 
McCullough. 

As  Macbeth  he  was  less  imaginative,  poetic, 
and  pathetic  than  Booth  (I  am  thinking  of  the 
latter 's  collapse  after  the  apparition  of  Banquo), 
but  more  robust  and  terrible  and,  to  my  mind, 

40 


w 

H 


w 
(J 
Q 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

closer  to  the  spirit  of  Shakespeare.  His  Thane 
had  fits  of  remorseful  and  sullen  despondency, 
but  was  neither  sentimental  nor  hag-ridden.  He 
might  be  temporarily  unnerved  and  shaken — as 
by  the  ghostly  visitation  at  the  banquet — but  he 
rallied  quickly  and  was  himself  again,  bk>ody, 
bold,  and  resolute.  He  was  a  rough  warrior  of  his 
period,  prompt,  sagacious,  fierce,  and,  in  the  main, 
unscrupulous,  though  he  was  not  devoid  of  all 
sense  of  honor  or  wholly  immune  against  qualms 
of  conscience.  His  utterance  of  the  words  "  To- 
morrow, as  he  purposes,"  in  reply  to  his  wife*s 
insidious  question  concerning  Duncan,  was 
charged  with  deadly  meaning,  making  it  plain 
that  his  mind  was  one  with  hers  and  that  he 
needed  no  sharp  application  of  the  spur  to  his 
intent,  while  his  subsequent  reflection,  "He's 
here  in  double  trust,"  ending  with  the  decision, 
"We  will  proceed  no  further  in  this  business," 
suggested  full  comprehension  of  the  situation  and 
the  possible  consequences  of  his  treachery  rather 
than  any  spiritual  revolt  from  the  enormity  of 
the  crime  itself.  His  concluding  outburst,  "I 
dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man ;  he  who  dares 
more  is  none,"  with  the  emphasis  upon  the 
"dare"  rather  than  upon  the  "more,"  showed 
that  the  contemptuous  chiding  of  his  wife  had 
ended  his  compunction. 

41 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

In  the  famous  dagger  soliloquy  Phelps  was 
deeply  impressive.  He  suggested  horror  rather 
than  terror,  the  horror  of  a  physical  courage 
tensely  braced  to  meet  the  shock  of  an  incalculable 
menace.  The  wonderful  lines  were  spoken  with 
a  power  of  descriptive  emphasis  and  a  tonal 
beauty  worthy  of  Salvini  himself  or  the  elder 
Bellew.  The  actor  held  the  audience  in  a  spell. 
In  his  remorseful  fit  after  the  murder,  in  which, 
like  Macready  and  others,  he  followed  the  tradi- 
tional business,  the  daggers  clicking  like  castanets 
in  his  palsied  hands,  he  did  not,  'as  so  many  other 
players  have  elected  to  do  at  this  point,  reveal 
himself  an  absolute  craven.  Unstrung,  in  reac- 
tion after  the  strain,  he  yet  maintained  a  measure 
of  self-control,  and  amid  all  his  temporary  be- 
wilderment and  dread  there  was  an  undertone  of 
determination.  His  "Look  on't  again,  I  dare 
not,"  was  closely  akin  to  "I  will  not,"  as  con- 
sistency plainly  demands.  And  it  may  be  noted 
here  that  the  complete  collapse  of  many  Macbeths 
at  this  juncture  is  absolutely  irreconcilable  with 
the  composure  with  which  they  receive  Macduflf 
a  few  minutes  afterward,  almost  before  they 
could  have  had  time  to  "wash  the  filthy  witness" 
from  their  hands.  Phelps — and  perhaps  Mac- 
ready  before  him — evidently  perceived  this  ab- 
surdity. At  all  events  his  conception  of  a  strong 

42 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Macbeth,  imperious  even  in  dealings  with  the 
witches,  was  maintained  from  first  to  last  with  a 
fine  consistency.  And  if  it  were  more  notable 
for  its  bold  outlines  than  for  the  accumulation  of 
detail  with  which  some  of  his  successors — Booth 
and  Irving,  for  instance — have  embroidered  it, 
it  never  attempted  to  substitute  intellectual 
subtleties  for  tragic  expression.  Here  was  a 
Macbeth  capable  of  the  crimes,  the  furies,  and 
the  desperation  ascribed  to  him,  and  no  sub- 
sequent impersonation  of  the  part  has  been  equal 
to  it  in  justness  of  proportion,  vigor,  or  pic- 
turesqueness. 

The  Othello  of  Phelps  was  a  sound,  straight- 
forward performance,  with  some  imposing  out- 
bursts of  passion  and  moments  of  melting  pathos, 
but  it  attained  to  no  dizzy  heights.  It  was  an 
eminently  satisfactory  bit  of  Shakespearean  work, 
but  it  was  not  inspired.  The  most  remarkable 
feature  of  it,  perhaps,  was  the  elocution.  The 
speech  to  the  Senate  may  have  been  delivered 
with  more  oratorical  and  Oriental  grace — Edwin 
Booth  shone  greatly  in  it — but  it  has  never,  in 
my  hearing,  been  spoken  with  such  soldierly  sim- 
plicity or  such  natural  dignity  as  it  was  by 
Phelps.  And  his  delivery  of  the  "Farewell" 
speech  was  exquisite  in  its  melody  and  pathos. 
As  a  whole  the  impersonation  followed  standard 

43 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

lines,  though  the  technical  execution  and  the  physi- 
cal power  of  it  raised  it  to  a,  level  much  above  the 
ordinary  standard. 

His  King  John,  according  to  contemporary 
critics,  was  a  copy,  though  not  a  servile  one,  of 
Macready's  famous  impersonation.  It  is  reason- 
able to  believe  that  he  followed  the  main  lines  of 
his  great  predecessor's  conception  pretty  closely, 
and  I  shall  riot  ask  for  him  the  credit  of  their 
invention.  But  his  copy,  if  copy  it  was,  was  one 
which  must  have  reproduced  most  of  the  virtues 
of  the  original.  It  was  a  most  vivid  sketch  of 
this  shifty,  cruel,  treacherous,  and  ambitious 
prince.  He  gave  ringing  effect  to  the  bold  de- 
fiance of  the  Pope  and  the  French  King,  enacted 
the  temptation  scene  with  Hubert  with  consum- 
mate craft,  and  the  death  scene  with  ghastly  and, 
pitiful  fidelity. 

His  Wolsey,  too,  almost  inevitably,  was  con- 
structed upon  established  precedents,  but  it  was 
finished  with  masterly  skill.  It  had  little  in  com- 
mon with  the  ascetic,  intellectual  prelate  of  Henry 
Irving.  Arrogant,  curt,  and  imperious  in  speech 
and  action,  he  had  much  more  of  the  statesman 
than  the  priest  about  him,  except  in  the  matter 
of  his  robes,  his  whole  aspect  and  carriage  being 
suggestive  of  his  humble  origin,  justifying,  in 
some  degree,  the  epithet  of  " butcher's  cur"  ap- 

44 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

plied  to  him  by  Buckingham.  But  it  was  a  vital, 
formidable,  and  dominant  personality  that  he 
presented.  It  was  in  his  closing  scenes,  of  course, 
that  he  created  his  most  striking  effects.  Even 
after  the  crushing  rebuke  of  him  by  the  King,  he 
abated  no  jot  of  his  pugnacious  attitude  in  the 
encounter  with  the  nobles  sent  to  demand  from 
him  the  resignation  of  his  offices,  and  his  gift  of 
biting,  sarcastic  speech — one  of  his  many  notable 
histrionic  furnishings — gave  deadly  point  to  his 
barbed  replies.  Being  alone,  he  muttered  bitterly, 
"So,  farewell  to  the  little  good  ye  bear  me/*  and 
then,  after  a  brief  pause  of  melancholy  reflection, 
entered  meditatively  upon  that  famous  soliloquy 
which,  whether  or  not  Fletcher  wrote  it,  is  one 
of  the  brightest  gems  in  the  play.  No  one  who 
has  ever  heard  Phelps  speak  it  will  forget  the 
music,  the  pathos,  or  the  passionate  yearning 
with  which  he  filled  it.  And  his  final  charge  to 
Cromwell  was  almost  equally  memorable  as  an 
example  of  the  choicest  declamation. 


45 


IV 


MORE  OF  SAMUEL  PHELPS  IN  SHAKE- 
SPEAREAN AND  OTHER  IMPER- 
SONATIONS 

IN  one  of  the  last  Shakespearean  plays  in 
which  I  saw  Phelps'  "Henry  IV.,"  he  offered  one 
of  his  amazing  exhibitions  of  versatility,  doubling 
the  parts  of  the  King  and  Justice  Shallow.  His 
impersonation  of  the  dying  Bolingbroke,  broken 
by  the  storms  of  state,  was  a  thoughtful  and 
finished  bit  of  portraiture — as  was  each  of  his 
countless  creations — but  presented  few  stirring 
dramatic  opportunities  and  may  be  dismissed 
briefly.  But  it  was  worth  a  long  journey  to  hear 
him  read  the  invocation  to  sleep.  All  the  melody, 
imagination,  and  pictorial  power  of  those  splen- 
did lines  found  expression  in  the  varied  intona- 
tions of  his  superb  voice,  which  rose  and  fell  in 
enchanting  cadences,  in  their  fullest  volume 
almost  rivaling  the  "rude,  imperious  surge" 
itself.  He  did  some  noble  work  also  in  the  crown 
scene  with  the  Prince  of  Wales.  But  his  pre- 
eminence as  an  actor  was  displayed  when,  after 
making  his  exit  as  the  King — a  dignified,  regal 
figure  —  by  one  door,  he  reentered,  through 

46 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

another,  transformed,  as  if  by  magic,  into  the 
wizened,  smirking,  garrulous,  pretentious  Shal- 
low. The  art  of  ''makeup,"  of  course,  accounted 
for  part  of  the  mystery,  but  most  of  it  was  due 
to  sheer  mimetic  intuition.  The  metamorphosis 
was  complete.  It  was  only  by  his  facial  linea- 
ments that  the  identity  of  the  actor  was  betrayed. 
In  bulk,  gait,  manner  of  speech,  there  was  noth- 
ing to  suggest  it.  The  big,  manly  voice  was 
turning  again  toward  childish  treble,  and  the 
utterance — dislocated  and  broken,  shrill,  voluble, 
hesitant,  pompous,  or  tetchy — was  a  most  faith- 
ful counterfeit  of  senile  chatter. 

In  the  simulation  of  the  externals  of  old  age 
there  was  not,  of  course,  anything  especially  re- 
markable. Any  fairly  competent  actor  is  equal 
to  it.  John  Gilbert  was  famous  as  an  "old  man" 
almost  before  he  had  a  reputation  as  a  young 
one.  But  the  creation  of  a  series  of  distinct  types 
of  old  age — the  invention  and  perpetuation  of 
peculiar  attributes  for  each  conception — that  is  a 
very  different  affair — and  Phelps's  gallery  of  old 
men,  as  will  be  seen,  was  crowded  with  diverse 
portraitures.  It  would  be  easy  to  make  too  much 
of  the  disguise,  the  expert  theatrical  side  of  his 
Shallow.  The  precious  artistic  quality  of  it  re- 
sided in  the  vitalization  of  the  Shakespearean 
humor,  the  humor  so  patent  to  the  reader  in  his 

47 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

study,  so  elusive  to  the  actor  on  the  boards.  What 
intelligent  theatergoer  but  has  been  amazed  or 
angered,  possibly  disillusioned,  by  the  tiresome- 
ness before  the  footlights  of  the  fools  and  clowns 
with  whom,  on  the  printed  page,  he  had  been 
enchanted?  Phelps's  Shallow  was  a  living  human 
being,  who  might  well  have  been  the  actual  em- 
bodiment of  his  creator's  ideal.  Whether  you 
laughed  with  him  or  at  him,  he  kept  you  con- 
stantly amused.  With  unfailing  ingenuity  the 
actor  solved  the  puzzles  occasionally  presented 
by  the  dialogue,  giving  it  cohesion  and  sequence, 
and  applying  finishing  touches  to  a  consistent 
individuality.  His  interpretation  may  not  always 
have  been  the  right  one,  but  it  was  always  adroit, 
plausible,  and  appropriate,  and  even  if  the  con- 
ception was  flavored  by  a  considerable  infusion  of 
his  own  humor,  which  was  apt  to  be  dry  and 
subtle,  the  value  of  it  was  not  diminished. 

After  his  Shallow,  his  Falstaff  ("Henry  IV") 
— antipodal  to  it  in  almost  every  respect — natu- 
rally comes  to  mind.  At  The  Wells  he  used  to 
play  also  the  Falstaff  of  "The  Merry  Wives." 
That  I  never  saw  him  do,  nor  am  I  sorry.  In 
the  early  and  true  Falstaff  he  was  delightful, 
being  far  in  advance  of  all  contemporary  rivals 
with  the  possible  exception  of  Hackett.  Some  of 
his  critics,  comparing  him  with  Stephen  Kemble, 

48 


who  had  a  virtual  monopoly  of  the  character  dur- 
ing the  greater  part  of  his  career,  complained  of 
his  lack  of  unction.  So  far  as  my  personal  ex- 
perience goes,  unctuous  humor  is  rarely  a  charac- 
teristic of  lean,  spare  men,  but  this  may  not  be 
a  physiological  fact.  It  is  true  that  Phelps's 
humor  was  not  unctuous.  It  was  not  of  the 
oleaginous,  luscious,  or  Bacchic  order.  As  a  rule 
it  was  hard,  dry,  and  snappy,  but  it  could  also  be 
broad  and  mellow  as  old  port.  His  Falstafr* 
might  have  been  even  better  than  it  was,  perhaps, 
if  it  had  exuded  more  of  the  essence  of  the  sack 
with  which  it  was  supposed  to  be  full,  but  it  was 
a  masterly  assumption,  bold  in  effect  and  minute 
in  finish,  and  what  it  may  have  lacked  in  liquor- 
ishness  it  more  than  made  up  in  intellect.  In 
"make-up"  it  was  most  felicitous.  By  the  aid 
of  paint  and  hair  the  somewhat  lantern-jawed 
face  of  the  actor  was  made  to  assume  a  round 
and  rubicund  aspect,  while  his  fictitious  bulk  was 
so  cleverly  distributed  that  his  proportions,  though 
abnormal,  seemed  natural.  Many  performers — 
Beerbohm  Tree  was  one  of  them — endow  the  fat 
knight  with  a  protuberance  so  vast  as  to  be  de- 
structive of  all  illusion.  Phelps's  Falstaff  was, 
at  least,  a  human  possibility.  I  can  see  him  now, 
in  my  mind's  eye,  apostrophizing  Bardolph, 
cajoling  the  hostess,  or  exchanging  broadsides 

49 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

with  the  mad  Prince  and  Poins  in  Eastcheap,  or 
waddling,  perspiring  and  breathless,  on  Salisbury 
Plain,  chuckling  contentedly  over  the  fact  that 
he  "had  misused  the  King's  press  most  damn- 
ably." 

No  point  in  the  racy  dialogue  escaped  him.  Vo- 
cal and  facial  eloquence  were  alike  admirable.  The 
crescendo  in  his  swaggering  relation  of  his  ad- 
ventures with  the  ''men  in  buckram" — with  its 
skilful  undertone  of  plaintive  reproach  against 
the  confederates  who  had  deserted  him — was  ex- 
traordinarily comic,  and  nothing  could  be  much 
more  amusing  than  his  artful  recovery  from  the 
confusion  wrought  in  him  by  the  Prince's  plain 
tale,  than  his  feigned  indignation  and  his  uneasy 
chuckle  developing  into  a  roar  of  laughter  as  he 
regained  his  effrontery,  and  cried,  ' '  By  the  Lord, 
I  knew  ye,  lads,  as  well  as  he  that  made  you!" 
He  was  at  his  very  best,  too,  in  the  delivery  of 
the  soliloquies  on  the  field  of  battle,  before  and 
after  the  killing  of  Percy.  In  no  way  did  he  at- 
tempt to  idealize  the  character,  to  gloss  over  its 
coarseness,  its  selfishness,  its  mendacity,  or  its 
cowardice,  but  he  contrived  to  convey  the  impres- 
sion of  a  vagabond  roisterer  who  had  been  a  gen- 
tleman once,  and  who  might  have  lived  and  died 
in  respectability  if  circumstances,  and  his  incli- 
nations, had  not  proved  too  strong  for  him. 

50 


There  is  not  much  to  be  said  about  Phelps's 
Manfred.  "When  the  Drury  Lane  managers  had 
selected  Byron's  noble,  mystic,  and  gloomy  poem 
as  a  fit  subject  for  glittering  spectacle,  they  real- 
ized that  the  piece  itself,  being  hopelessly  un- 
dramatic,  would  have  little  or  no  attraction  for 
the  general  public  unless  some  notable  actor  was 
engaged  to  reinforce  the  scenery.  Phelps,  ever 
zealous  in  the  cause  of  the  literary  drama,  under- 
took the  task,  and  his  superb  declamation  of  the 
lines — for  there  was  little  acting  to  do— helped 
to  make  the  show  a  great  success.  He  did  not, 
however,  reveal  in  it  any  new  phase  of  his  talent. 
But  as  Eichelieu,  in  Bulwer-Lytton's  over-senti- 
mentalized and  artificial  but  imaginative  and 
stirring  romance,  he  shone  with  great  luster.  It 
is  unquestionable  that  his  impersonation  was 
modeled  after  that  of  Macready,  whom  he  sup- 
ported as  Joseph,  but  his  mastery  of  cynical 
humor  and  pathos,  and  his  gift  of  characteriza- 
tion, marked  it  with  distinct  individuality.  It 
is  probable  that  he  fell  short  of  the  intellectual 
idealism  with  which  Macready  is  said  to  have 
ennobled  the  part,  but  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that 
his  illustrious  predecessor  could  have  excelled 
him  on  the  theatrical  and  dramatic  side,  in  har- 
mony of  conception,  vigor  or  delicacy  of  finish, 
beauty  of  elocution  or  electrical  power  in  the 

51 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

various  crises.  I  have  seen  many  eminent  actors 
as  Richelieu,  but  none  of  them — except  Edwin 
Booth,  to  whom  we  shall  come  presently — can  be 
mentioned  in  the  same  category  with  Phelps.  In 
the  grim  humor  of  the  opening  interviews  with 
De  Mauprat,  in  paternal  tenderness  to  Julie,  in 
the  cajolery  of  Joseph  or  Huguet,  in  the  con- 
trasting moods  of  the  chamber  scene,  in  the  ex- 
hortation to  Francois,  in  the  passionate  exalta- 
tion of  the  defiance  of  Baradas,  in  the 
triumphant  mockery  of  the  final  act,  he  was  a 
little  bit  more  effective,  more  vital,  and  more 
reasonable  than  any  other  Richelieu  I  have  seen. 
In  the  far  inferior  play  of  "The  Fool's  Re- 
venge" (Tom  Taylor's)  he,  as  Bertuccio,  was  at 
least  the  equal  of  Edwin  Booth  in  the  frenzied 
agony  of  his  appeal  to  the  abductors  of  his  daugh- 
ter, at  the  doors  of  the  ducal  chamber,  and,  it 
seems  to  me,  superior  even  to  him  in  emphasizing 
the  venomous  humor  of  which  the  part  is  so 
largely  compounded.  He  used  a  different  version 
of  the  play  from  that  commonly  employed  by 
Booth,  for  he  appeared  in  more  than  one  scene 
as  a  dignified  gentleman,  in  ordinary  Venetian 
costume — without  deformity  or  cap  and  bells— 
with  his  daughter,  Fiordelisa,  who  was  supposed 
to  know  nothing  of  the  humiliating  disguise  which 
her  father  had  assumed  for  his  purpose  of  ven- 

52 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

geance.  The  quality  of  the  play,  as  I  remember 
it,  was  not  greatly  affected  by  this  variation, 
which  did,  however,  give  the  actor  a  chance  of 
appearing  in  a  double  character,  as  it  were,  an 
opportunity  of  which  Phelps  was  prompt  to  seize 
the  advantage. 

As  an  interpreter  of  high  or  eccentric  comedy 
Phelps  was  as  proficient  as  in  tragedy  and  ro- 
mantic drama.  As  Sir  Peter  Teazle,  he  disputed 
the  palm  with  Chippendale  or  the  second  Farren. 
In  America  his  rivals  would  have  been  John  Gil- 
bert and  William  Warren.  Leading  English 
critics  thought  his  humor  too  hard  and  dry  for 
the  part  and  found  him  too  mechanical.  He  cer- 
tainly was  mechanical  in  the  business  with 
Charles,  immediately  preceding  the  overthrow  of 
the  screen,  a  business  which  he  copied  from  the 
first  Farren,  who  may  have  inherited  it  from 
King,  and  which  has  been  adopted  with  more  or 
less  fidelity  by  many  successive  Sir  Peters;  and 
there  can  be  no  question  of  the  dryness  of  his 
humor.  Whether  that  quality  is  inconsistent  with 
the  character  of  "a  crusty  old  bachelor"  is  a 
question  which  need  not  now  be  argued.  Per- 
sonally I  could  discover  nothing  aggressively 
mechanical  in  the  action  of  his  Sir  Peter,  although 
it  exhibited  the  proper  formality  of  the  period, 
and  the  precision  that  comes  with  assured  skill. 

53 


It  lacked  a  certain  amiability  which  characterized 
Chippendale's  embodiment — in  its  nnvexed  mo- 
ments— and  was,  perhaps,  somewhat  too  hard- 
headed  and  astute  for  an  elderly  swain  who  had 
shown  so  little  worldly  wisdom  in  his  love  mak- 
ing, bnt  it  was  consistent  and  persistently  amus- 
ing. Every  point  in  the  witty  lines  was  driven 
home. 

But  his  Sir  Peter  was  not  the  eqnal  of  his 
Sir  Anthony  Absolute.  The  latter  was  a  part 
thoroughly  congenial  to  his  masterly  style  and 
natural  temperament — he  was  a  man  of  generous 
but  fiery  nature — and  he  played  it  with  a  whole- 
souled  enthusiasm.  Chippendale,  who  was  also 
famous  in  the  part,  had  the  humor  and  the  tech- 
nique, but  not  the  acerbity  or  the  power.  John 
Gilbert  was  his  only  rival.  I  will  not  attempt  to 
institute  comparisons  between  the  two  with  the 
idea  of  deciding  which  of  them  was  the  better. 
They  were  not  alike,  but  they  were  very  nearly 
equaL  The  choler  of  both  was  magnificent. 
Phelps  was  brisker  in  movement,  more  manifestly 
peppery,  than  Gilbert,  but  in  the  latter 's  leisurely 
gait  and  sullen  brow  there  was  always  the  menace 
of  impending  thunder.  In  the  finish  and  power 
of  either  conception  there  was  little  to  choose. 
But  Gilbert,  with  all  his  broad  efficiency,  could 
not  have  played  successfully  in  Sir  Pertinax 

54 


MacSycophant,  the  hero  of  Macklin's  old  comedy, 
"The  Man  of  the  World."  Of  this  Phelps  made 
one  of  his  masterpieces,  an  impersonation  to  take 
rank  with  the  greatest  achievements  of  the  stage. 
The  comedy  itself  possesses  no  extraordinary 
merit,  but  the  central  figure  is  a  vital  bit  of 
satirical  writing,  which  makes  very  exacting  de- 
mands upon  the  comic  and  tragic  powers  of  the 
interpreting  actor.  Briefly,  Sir  Pertinax  is  an 
unscrupulous,  heartless,  miserly  hypocrite,  who 
Has  achieved  wealth  and  station  by  his  mean  sub- 
serviency and  his  disregard  of  every  decent  and 
honorable  instinct.  Finally,  all  his  schemes  fail, 
his  self-degradation  recoils  upon  him,  and  his 
end  is  as  tragic  as  that  of  Sir  Giles  Overreach. 
The  fact  that  the  part  is  in  the  Scotch  dialect  in- 
creases its  difficulty.  Of  the  dialect  Phelps  was 
a  complete  master — he  used  to  play  Bob  Roy  and 
Bailie  Nieoll  Jarvie  in  Edinburgh — and  he  also 
had  the  comic  and  the  emotional  power.  His 
Sir  Pertinax  was  a  combination  of  humorous  and 
terrible  reality,  a  wonderfully  composite  study 
in  which  shameless  greed  and  cunning,  inflexible 
purpose,  and  jealous  hatred  were  artfully  sug- 
gested beneath  an  affectation  of  complacent 
humility.  The  man  had  the  suppleness,  the  sleek- 
ness, the  stealth,  and  the  innate  savagery  of  that 
domesticated  tiger,  the  cat.  There  is  one  notably 

55 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

effective  speech  in  the  play,  in  which  Sir  Pertinax 
unfolds  to  the  hero — his  nephew,  whom  he 
despises  and  detests  on  account  of  his  humane 
and  manly  qualities — the  policy  of  his  own  life, 
the  secret,  as  he  boasts,  of  his  prosperity  and 
power.  It  was  by  ''booing"  (bowing),  and  by 
booing  only,  in  all  imaginable  circumstances,  that 
he  had  disarmed  hostility,  averted  suspicion, 
hidden  guile,  and  misled  sagacity.  The  cynical 
effrontery  with  which  Phelps  declaimed  this 
speech,  the  variety  of  emphasis  and  gesture  with 
which  he  illustrated  and  enforced  his  argument, 
and  the  eloquence  of  his  facial  play  as  he  watched 
the  effect  of  it,  were  extraordinary.  And  the 
effect  was  due  entirely  to  art,  not  in  any  way  to 
his  individual  personality.  In  the  scene  of  his 
final  exposure  and  overthrow,  the  fury  of  his 
despair  and  of  his  insensate  and  impotent  rage 
was  appalling.  The  only  paroxysmal  outbursts 
to  compare  with  it  that  I  have  witnessed  upon  the 
English-speaking  stage  were  in  the  Pescara  of 
Edwin  Booth  and  the  Sir  Giles  Overreach  of  E. 
L.  Davenport. 

Admirable  as  Phelps  was  in  the  Colman  com- 
edies, "John  Bull"  and  "The  Jealous  Wife,"  it 
is  not  necessary  to  dwell  upon  either  impersona- 
tion. "John  Bull"  owed  its  one-time  popularity 
to  its  admixture  of  patriotic  and  sentimental 

56 


in 

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SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

claptrap,  to  which  he  imparted  temporary  value 
by  his  simplicity,  sincerity,  and  vigor,  while  the 
part  of  Oakley  did  not  reveal  him  in  any  new 
light.  But  his  expert  handling  of  it  made  it 
amusing,  which  was  more  than  Charles  Coghlan 
could  do  when  he  essayed  it  in  New  York,  many 
years  later.  But  this  cursory  review  of  his 
achievements  must  not  close  without  some  refer- 
ence to  the  characteristic  display  of  versatility 
and  finished  artistry  which  he  afforded  in  "The 
King  of  Scots,"  Halliday's  dramatization  of 
"The  Fortunes  of  Nigel."  In  this  spectacular 
melodrama,  he  furnished  two  most  striking 
studies — the  word  is  used  advisedly — one  of  the 
wise,  foolish,  weak,  timid,  opinionated  King 
James,  and  the  other  of  the  wretched  old  miser, 
Trapbois.  They  were  as  clearly  cut  and  as 
antipodal  as  his  Henry  IV  and  Shallow.  His 
James,  who  might  have  stept  out  of  a  canvas  by 
Van  Dyke,  was  delightful  in  his  pedantic  humors, 
his  frequent  lapses  from  royal  dignity,  his  rapid 
alternations  between  frolicsome  and  querulous 
moods,  his  braggadocio,  and  his  comic  timorous- 
ness. 

From  heels  to  plume  he  was  alive.  In  Trap- 
bois the  actor,  shrunk  to  half  his  girth,  presented 
a  terrible  realization  of  senile  avarice  and  vice. 
In  the  quavering  voice,  bent  and  wizened  form, 

57 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

and  tottering  limbs,  there  was  not  a  trace  of  the 
serio-comic  monarch  who  had  just  quitted  the 
stage,  nor  was  it  easy  to  assure  oneself  of  the 
actor's  identity.  The  illusion  of  a  double  per- 
sonality was  absolute.  Part  of  it,  of  course,  was 
due  to  theatrical  device,  but  much  more  of  it  to 
sheer  mimetic  art.  The  characters  in  themselves 
were  insignificant,  but  the  fortune  of  any  player 
would  be  made  who  could  vitalize  either  of  them 
as  Phelps  did,  and  his  achievement  is  related 
here  as  evidence  of  the  histrionic  efficiency  pro- 
duced by  the  old-time  stock-company  training. 
His  impersonations  amounted  to  hundreds,  but 
nothing  would  be  gained  by  giving  a  full  list  of 
them,  even  if  I  had  it.  But  a  few  of  them,  in 
which  he  won  special  renown,  may  be  mentioned 
at  haphazard.  His  Bottom,  the  Weaver,  was  the 
most  celebrated  on  record,  and  won  the  en- 
thusiastic commendation  of  accomplished  critics. 
His  whole  production  of  "A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream"  has  been  characterized  as  one  of  the 
most  enlightened  and  poetic  in  theatrical  annals. 
Played  largely  behind  gauze,  in  a  dim,  roseate 
light,  and  without  much  sharply  accentuated 
action,  it  resembled  the  fantastic  happenings  of 
a  dream,  and  lent  to  the  fairy  episodes  a  highly 
appropriate  and  charming  insubstantiality.  The 
painful  discrepancy  between  the  manifest  solidity 

58 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

of  earthly  actors  and  the  supposed  immateriality 
of  the  shapes  they  occupy  was  thus,  to  a  great 
extent,  avoided.  He  won  other  triumphs,  as 
Dogberry,  as  Malvolio,  as  Lord  Ogleby,  Sir  Giles 
Overreach,  Alfred  Evelyn,  and  Sir  Edward 
Mortimer,  in  "The  Iron  Chest."  He  won  appro- 
bation as  Benedick,  and  made  a  star  part  of 
Christopher  Sly,  remaining  upon  the  stage 
throughout  the  entire  performance  of  "The  Tam- 
ing of  the  Shrew,"  and  heightening  the  effect  by 
his  appropriate  byplay.  He  had  his  failures. 
His  Hamlet  was  heavy  and  his  lago  unim- 
aginative, but  no  player  of  his  generation  was 
more  completely  master  of  his  trade. 

Macready  I  saw  once,  long  after,  his  retire- 
ment. When  Phelps  made  his  first  appearance, 
at  the  West  End,  as  King  John,  he  occupied  the 
seat  of  honor  in  the  royal  box,  and  evidently  fol- 
lowed the  performance  with  the  liveliest  interest. 
He  was  liberal  with  applause,  and  when  his  old 
leading  man,  having  been  called  before  the  cur- 
tain, bowed  to  him,  stood  up  and  bent  low  in 
answering  salutation.  He  was  a  handsome  figure. 
His  tall  form  was  still  erect,  and  he  carried  his 
head — with  the  long,  white  locks  framing  the 
strong,  stern  face — very  proudly.  Looking  at 
him,  it  was  easy  to  understand  how  unfitted  he 
was  by  temperament  for  the  vexatious  life  of  the 

59 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

theater.  Soon  after  this  Helen  Faucit  (Lady 
Theodore  Martin)  returned  to  the  stage  for  a 
single  performance  of  Juliet,  for  some  charitable 
object,  and  I  was  lucky  enough  to  get  a  seat. 

She  was  then  fifty-three  years  old  and  made 
no  effort  to  conceal  the  signs  of  middle  age.  She 
wore  bunches  of  curls,  I  remember,  over  her 
ears,  with  side  and  back-combs,  in  Spanish  fash- 
ion. Whether  they  were  the  proper  thing  or  not 
in  Verona  in  the  days  of  the  Montagus  and 
Capulets,  I  can  not  say,  but  the  style  was  not 
becoming  to  her,  and  there  was  nothing  in  her 
face  or  person  to  suggest  the  fascinating  and 
impassioned  Juliet.  Nor  was  there  much  ap- 
parent endeavor  to  simulate  either  youth  or  pas- 
sion in  her  impersonation,  which,  to  me,  was  a 
grievous  disappointment.  But,  nevertheless,  it 
had  some  notable  qualities.  It  had  the  large, 
free,  significant  gesture  and  the  fine  diction  of 
the  old  school.  She  recited  rather  than  acted, 
the  balcony  scene,  but  her  reading  of  the  lines 
was  delicious.  With  the  nurse  she  was,  to  my 
thinking,  self-conscious,  artificial,  and  affected, 
but  that  coaxing  episode  had  not  then  been  over- 
burdened with  ridiculous  pantomime,  as  it  has 
been  since,  by  the  grace  of  " professors"  (as 
they  truly  are  in  one  sense),  in  so-called  dramatic 
schools.  In  the  potion  scene  she  exhibited  im- 

60 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

pressive  declamatory  power,  giving  each  word 
and  clause  its  value,  and  artfully  saving  her 
voice  for  the  climaxes,  when  she  poured  it  forth 
in  magnificent  volume,  without  degenerating  into 
shrieking,  inarticulate  vehemence.  It  was  a  fine 
piece  of  work,  thoroughly  intelligent  and  artistic, 
but  not  inspired.  She  did  not  thrill  me  with  a 
sense  of  clairvoyant  horror,  as  did  Stella  Colas. 
But  she  had  not  the  spell  of  youth  and  beauty  to 
aid  her.  She  undoubtedly  satisfied  the  fastidious 
taste  of  Macready  in  the  early  days,  when  she 
adored  him,  and  he,  not  insusceptible  to  her 
charms,  was  her  preceptor  and  guide.  It  was 
fortunate,  perhaps,  that  she  died  before  the  latest 
edition  of  his  diaries — showing  how  he  derided 
her  abilities  as  soon  as  her  friendly  intimacy 
with  him  had  ceased — was  published.  She  was 
spared  a  rude  shock  to  a  cherished  memory. 


61 


BENJAMIN  WEBSTER,  CHARLES 
FECHTER,  AND  OTHERS 

IN  later  days  I  became  acquainted  with  the 
work  of  many  of  the  distinguished  actors  who 
had  contributed  to  the  fame  of  Sadler's  Wells 
under  the  management  of  Phelps.  Without  ex- 
ception, I  believe,  they  were  the  product  of  stock 
companies  in  London  or  the  provinces.  Prom- 
inent among  them  was  Mrs.  Warner,  a  tragic 
actress  of  notable  equipment,  both  physical  and 
artistic.  In  such  parts  as  Lady  Macbeth,  the 
Duchess  of  Malfi,  or  Queen  Katharine,  she  was 
the  equal  of  Charlotte  Cushman,  of  whom  she 
had  the  advantage  in  stature  and  feminine  charm. 
Miss  Marriott  was  another  sterling  actress  of 
the  robust  order.  She  was  a  large  woman,  some- 
what masculine  in  voice  and  manner.  She  was 
the  only  actress,  in  my  experience  (I  never  saw 
Cushman  in  any  of  her  masculine  assumptions), 
who  could  play  male  parts  without  an  obvious 
betrayal  of  her  sex.  Her  Hamlet,  for  which  she 
had  the  shape  and  the  inches,  was,  to  my  mind, 

62 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

a  capable  performance,  not  in  the  least  distin- 
guished, but  fulfilling  traditional  requirements. 
It  was  intelligent,  interesting,  and  sufficiently 
forceful,  and  was  successful  all  over  England. 
There  is  a  saying  that  no  player  ever  failed  alto- 
gether in  Hamlet.  I  can  specify  one  who  did, 
and  that  was  the  illustrious  Sarah  Bernhardt, 
whose  impersonation  was  a  presumptuous,  igno- 
rant, and  abominable  travesty,  with  the  feminine 
eternally  dominant. 

Another  fine  actress  who  played  many  im- 
portant characters,  in  tragedy  and  comedy,  at 
The  Wells,  with  much  success  was  Miss  Glynn. 
She  was  a  woman  of  graceful  proportions  and 
potent  facial  charm.  Her  greatest  success,  per- 
haps, was  won  in  the  difficult  part  of  Cleopatra, 
an  impersonation  admitted  to  be  the  best  of  her 
era.  Certainly  I  know  of  none  superior  or  equal 
to  it.  She  portrayed  a  woman  who  might  be 
supposed  capable  of  bewitching  a  grizzled  war- 
rior and  statesman,  a  leader  in  the  city  and  the 
camp,  a  past  master  in  diplomatic  wiles  and  the 
lures  of  a  splendid  and  profligate  society.  Her 
Queen  was  something  more  than  an  Oriental 
siren,  luxurious,  whimsical,  selfish,  cruel,  and 
wanton.  Even  in  her  hero  worship  she  was 
royal,  and  suggested  something  of  the  subtlety 
and  mystery  of  the  Serpent  of  Old  Nile.  She 

63 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

was  a  prize  worth  the  winning  even  by  a  sated 
epicure. 

William  Creswick  was  for  some  time  a  rival 
of  Phelps,  but,  lacking  initiative  and  adaptabil- 
ity, he  fell  behind  in  the  race.  As  he  grew  older, 
he  was  a  lamentable  illustration  of  the  pass  to 
which  a  blind  devotion  to  tradition  may  bring 
an  actor.  He  became  terribly  dull  and  wooden, 
and  lost  his  hold  upon  the  public.  Yet,  in  his 
prime,  before  he  was  a  slave  to  the  worst  kind 
of  mannerisms,  he  was  a  most  correct  and  power- 
ful player.  He  did  yeoman's  work  with  Phelps. 
Henry  Marston  was  a  conspicuous  example  of 
the  value  of  sound  training.  He  was  handi- 
capped at  first  by  an  imperfect  utterance  and  a 
weak,  unmanageable  voice,  but  he  learned  to  be 
one  of  the  best  speakers,  as  well  as  one  of  the 
most  trustworthy  actors,  upon  the  stage,  and  for 
years  was  an  able  coadjutor  of  Phelps.  His 
presence  was  dignified,  and  his  manner  graceful, 
and  he  was  of  great  value  in  characters  requiring 
a  note  of  personal  refinement.  He  delivered  the 
dying  speech  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  in 
"Richard  III,"  which  is  often  omitted  nowadays 
for  the  lack  of  any  actor  able  to  speak  it,  with 
extraordinary  impressiveness. 

James  Anderson,  who  lived  to  a  great  age,  was 
for  years  a  prominent  leading  tragedian,  and 

64 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

acted  both  with  Phelps  and  Macready.  He  was 
endowed  with  lofty  stature  and  a  fine  voice,  ad- 
vantages which  were  supplemented  by  expert 
knowledge  of  his  art.  He  had,  too,  a  measure  of 
versatility,  which  permitted  him  a  considerable 
range  in  romance  and  melodrama,  but  the  broadly 
comic  vein  was  not  well  developed  in  him,  and 
his  mimetic  faculty  was  limited.  In  the  provinces 
he  enjoyed  high  repute  in  a  wide  repertory  of 
heroic  characters,  including  Macbeth,  Othello, 
Ingomar,  and  Lear.  He  could  be  tempestuous 
or  ardent,  but  in  pathetic  passages  he  was 
dolorous  rather  than  melting.  As  Joseph  Surface 
he  was  admirable.  Sleek,  elegant,  courteous, 
plausible,  and  deprecatory,  he  might  easily  have 
imposed  upon  a  shrewder  personage  than  Sir 
Peter.  I  saw  him  act  this  character  in  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  casts  ever  collected  in  the 
history  of  the  comedy.  Phelps  was  the  Sir  Peter, 
Mrs.  Hermann  Vezin  the  Lady  Teazle,  Buck- 
stone  the  Sir  Benjamin,  Henry  Compton  the 
Crabtree,  Walter  Lacy  the  Charles,  Mrs.  Chip- 
pendale the  Mrs.  Candor,  Henry  Howe  the  Kow- 
ley,  J.  L.  Toole  the  Moses,  and  Benjamin  Web- 
ster the  Snake.  This  was  at  Drury  Lane,  for 
the  benefit  of  the  General  Theatrical  Fund. 

Walter   Lacy,    a   stalwart   and   graceful   man, 
with  a  handsome  and  vivacious  countenance,  was 

65 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

superb  in  genteel  and  serious  comedy.  He  could 
be  dazzling  and  vigorous,  but  he  had  no  spark  of 
tragic  passion  in  him.  His  Prince  of  Wales,  in 
11  Henry  IV, "  was  the  embodiment  of  reckless, 
irresponsible  gayety,  of  humorous  mischief  with- 
out a  trace  of  malice  in  it.  A  merry  devil  was  in 
his  eye  and  laughter  on  his  lips.  The  boyish 
make-believe  of  his  Falstaffian  scenes  was  inimit- 
able. The  exhilaration  and  spontaneity  of  the 
entire  impersonation  gave  extraordinary  vitality 
to  the  Shakespearean  invention.  But  in  his  most 
roystering  moods  he  never  quite  forgot  his 
princely  dignity.  He  said  and  did  scandalous 
things  without  losing  his  air  of  high  breeding, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  play,  before  and  after  the 
death  of  Hotspur,  bore  himself  as  a  gallant  and 
courtly  gentleman.  His  Charles  Surface  was  a 
most  engaging  young  scapegrace,  brimful  of 
animal  spirits,  a  profligate  rather  than  a  de- 
bauchee, indifferent  to  everything  but  the  gayety 
of  the  moment,  audacious,  cynical,  frank,  gener- 
ous, and — except  in  the  matter  of  his  creditors — 
honorable.  The  only  modern  impersonations 
comparable  with  it  were  those  of  Charles  Coghlan 
and  Lester  Wallack.  Benjamin  Webster,  a  sep- 
tuagenarian at  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking, 
was  a  famous  Snake,  a  character  of  which  he  was 
a  very  early  representative.  Small  as  the  part 

66 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

is,  he  made  it  conspicuous  by  the  polished,  rep- 
tilian manner  of  his  delineation.  The  obsequious 
insolence  of  it  was  at  once  fascinating  and  re- 
pellent. 

Webster  is  now  chiefly  remembered — when  he 
is  remembered  at  all — as  the  manager  of  the 
Adelphi  when  that  house — which  I  haunted  for 
several  years — was  recognized  as  the  favorite 
abode  of  melodrama.  But  he  was  a  notable  man 
in  more  ways  than  one,  and  had  an  adventurous, 
stormy,  but,  on  the  whole,  prosperous  career. 
As  an  actor  he  was  first  rate  in  many  humorous, 
emotional,  and  eccentric  parts.  As  a  manager  he 
was  capable,  astute,  and  occasionally  enterpris- 
ing; but  he  had  the  box-office  ever  in  his  mind, 
was  not  over-ambitious  or  over-scrupulous;  as  a 
man  he  was  humorous,  convivial,  capricious,  and 
stubborn.  He  had  a  coterie  of  close  friends  and 
many  bitter  enemies.  Macready,  who  frequently 
played  under  his  management,  detested  him  and 
poured  out  the  vials  of  his  literary  wrath  upon 
him,  and  he  was  often  in  trouble  with  other 
eminent  performers,  but  remained  a  power  in 
the  theatrical  profession  for  many  years,  and 
knew  how  to  please  his  public.  I  saw  him  act 
very  often,  but  it  is  not  necessary  to  mention 
more  than  four  of  his  impersonations  as  samples 
of  his  quality.  In  the  old  melodrama  of  "The 

67 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Dead  Heart"  lie  played  Robert  Landry  with 
really  wonderful  effect.  His  portrayal  of  the 
patriarchal  prisoner  rescued  from  the  Bastille, 
with  every  faculty  of  body  and  mind  paralyzed 
by  long  incarceration,  with  glazed  and  unspecu- 
lative  eyes,  and  blank,  waxen  face,  was  infinitely 
pathetic,  and  his  slow  awakening  from  his  torpor 
was  accomplished  with  innumerable  delicate, 
subtle,  realistic  strokes. 

In  the  later  acts,  his  manifestation  of  vengeful 
purpose  and  cold  implacability  was  maintained 
with  a  restrained  forcefulness  which  was  ex- 
ceedingly artistic  and  striking.  His  Triplet,  in 
"Masks  and  Faces" — he  was  the  original  creator 
of  the  character — set  the  standard  for  all  future 
performances.  It  was  an  excellently  human 
sketch,  full  of  wistful,  plaintive  humor  and  gen- 
uine pathos,  and  was  most  elaborately  wrought. 
His  skill  upon  the  fiddle  added  to  its  realism. 
And  in  the  comely  and  vivacious  Mrs.  Sterling 
he  had  an  ideal  Peg  Womngton,  while  his  com- 
pany was  capable  of  giving  full  effect  to  the  arti- 
ficial style  and  racy  dialogue  of  Charles  Reade's 
comedy.  (Mrs.  Sterling  lived  and  maintained 
her  dramatic  activities  to  a  great  age  and  was 
a  prime  favorite  of  the  pubic.  One  of  her  latest 
triumphs  was  as  the  Nurse  in  Irving 's  revival 
of  "Borneo  and  Juliet.")  Another  of  Webster's 

68 


BENJAMIN  WEBSTER 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

notable  achievements  was  his  Joey  Ladle,  the  old 
cellar  man,  in  Wilkie  Collins 's  "No  Thorough- 
fare." It  was  a  veritable  creation,  heavy, 
lethargic,  misty  with  the  moldy  atmosphere  of 
the  vaults  about  it,  and  a  savor  of  the  cobwebs 
and  fungi  among  which  it  was  supposed  to  have 
its  habitat. 

This  strange  but  always  vital  figure  Webster 
endowed  with  a  sort  of  subterranean  humor, 
rumbling  and  mellow,  and  a  capacity  for  dog-like 
devotion  to  the  heroine  which,  as  the  play  pro- 
ceeded, sharpened  his  faculties,  aroused  his  dor- 
mant energies,  and  converted  him  into  a  man  of 
action.  The  progressive  stages  of  this  develop- 
ment were  marked  with  a  cleverness  akin  to  that 
displayed  in  the  resuscitated  Landry.  In  "One 
Touch  of  Nature, ' '  a  little  gem  of  its  kind,  he  was 
supremely  good  as  the  fond  old  father.  His 
simple  naturalness  was  exquisite  and  his  pathos 
irresistible,  and  in  the  ultimate  recognition  he 
touched  a  note  of  rapturous  passion.  His  mem- 
ory is  worth  preserving.  He  was  not  a  great 
manager,  for  he  produced  no  great  plays — except 
when  he  made  special  engagements  with  men 
like  Macready,  and  often  failed  to  fulfil  his  obli- 
gations —  but  his  regular  company  was  good 
and  his  presentations  of  modern  pieces,  melo- 
drama and  farce,  admirable.  It  was  solely  the 

69 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

excellence  of  the  acting  that  made  the  lasting 
success  of  such  crude  pieces  as  ''The  Flowers 
of  the  Forest"  possible. 

The  Victorian  theater  was  in  a  parlous  condi- 
tion when  Charles  Fechter  burst  like  a  meteor 
upon  the  stage.  The  simile  is  not  inept,  for  his 
full  radiance  did  not  last  long.  He  won  renown 
in  America  in  later  years,  but  only  those  who 
saw  him  during  his  early  London  career  can 
rightfully  appreciate  his  true  genius.  Therefore 
I  speak  of  him  here.  When  he  reached  the  States 
excesses  had  robbed  him  of  his  figure,  enfeebled 
his  activities,  and  dimmed,  though  they  never  ex- 
tinguished, his  fire.  As  I  first  knew  him,  he  was 
a  model  of  athletic  vigor,  and  grossness  had  not 
blurred  the  fine  and  expressive  lines  of  his  face. 
Genius  is  a  much  abused  word,  especially  in 
theatrical  criticism,  where  it  is  often  applied  to 
performers  of  very  ordinary  intelligence.  But 
Fechter  exhibited  indisputable  genius  in  roman- 
tic if  not  in  the  highest  form  of  tragic  and  poetic 
drama.  He  was  an  extraordinary  man  in  many 
respects.  Born  in  London  of  French  and  German 
parents,  he  spoke  three  languages  with  equal 
fluency,  if  not  with  equal  felicity.  His  English 
pronunciation  was  excellent,  but  he  never  could 
rid  himself  of  a  Continental  intonation. 

He  won  public  recognition  first  in  Paris,  at  the 

70 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Porte  St.  Martin,  where  lie  was  hailed  as  a 
worthy  successor  of  Frederic  Lemaitre.  It  was 
a  bold  stroke  when  he  challenged  national  preju- 
dice by  acting  Hamlet  in  London,  but  the 
notoriety  he  gained  from  the  fierce  press  contro- 
versy that  raged  around  him  insured  his  success 
and  paved  the  way  for  his  future  brilliant  cam- 
paign at  the  Lyceum.  Those  controversies  I  have 
no  notion  of  reviving.  But  nothing  could  be  much 
more  ridiculous  than  the  objurgations  hurled 
against  him  because  he  saw  fit  to  wear  a  blond 
wig  against  all  precedent.  He  had  his  defenders, 
who  asked  whether  the  Danes  were  not  a  fair- 
haired  race,  but  most  of  the  dramatic  pundits 
and  all  the  old  actors  were  overwhelmingly 
against  him.  But  the  people  flocked  to  see  him 
and  he  had  a  staunch  and  influential  backer  in 
Miss  Burdett-Coutts — she  was  not  Lady  Coutts 
then — ever  the  friend  of  all  sorts  of  artists,  who 
sang  his  praises  in  high  places  and  took  all  her 
friends  to  see  him. 

I  saw  his  Hamlet  in  its  first  bloom  and  in  its 
decline.  In  general  conception  and  execution  it 
was,  in  many  respects,  I  think,  the  most  satis- 
factory in  my  experience.  It  fell  short  of  Edwin 
Booth's  in  intellectuality  and  meditative  and 
poetic  charm,  and  of  Forbes-Robertson's  in 
idealism  and  oratorical  precision,  but  it  was  more 


human  than  either  of  them  and  offered  a  better 
blend  of  the  various  elements  in  the  character. 
It  had  the  dignity  of  the  prince,  the  polish  of  the 
courtier,  the  melancholy  of  a  harassed  and 
vacillating  mind,  the  culture  of  a  scholar  and 
artist,  and  the  ardor  of  a  lover.  No  actor  of 
modern  times  has  infused  so  much  of  romance 
into  the  tragedy  as  did  Fechter  in  his  scenes  with 
Ophelia.  Even  in  his  renunciation  of  her,  the 
dominant  note  was  that  of  a  passionate  yearning. 
In  the  mournful  cadences  of  his  voice,  in  his 
bearing  and  gesture,  he  suggested  the  anguish 
of  a  devotion  cruelly  shocked  by  the  shattering 
of  an  ideal.  In  the  mockery  of  the  play  scene 
he  was  the  lover  still,  and  the  proclamation  of 
his  passion  in  the  ranting  challenge  to  Laertes 
in  the  churchyard  glowed  with  volcanic  fire.  And 
he  excelled  all  other  actors  of  the  past  known 
to  me  in  the  thrilling  vehemence  of  his  self- 
reproach  in  the  lines  beginning,  "Oh,  what  a 
rogue  and  peasant  slave  am  II" 

In  the  traditional  business  of  the  character  he 
had  been  thoroughly  drilled  by  J.  M.  H.  Bellew 
and  others,  and — except  in  the  matter  of  his  wig 
—he  attempted  no  very  startling  innovation.  It 
was  in  the  pictorial  quality  of  his  acting,  the  un- 
restrained freedom  and  suppleness  of  his 
gestures,  and  his  emotional  fervor  that  he  differed 

72 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

from  accepted  standards.  Two  of  the  charges 
preferred  against  him  by  hostile  critics,  that  he 
was  melodramatic,  not  tragic,  and  that  he  could 
not  read  blank  verse,  had  some  foundation  in 
fact.  But  "romantic"  would  have  been  a  juster 
word  than  "melodramatic,"  which  implies  ex- 
aggeration without  imagination.  Fechter  had 
imagination  enough  to  comprehend  the  essential 
elements  of  Hamlet,  though  he  may  not  have  been 
able  to  plumb  all  his  depths.  His  rich,  illum- 
inative action  —  the  result  of  his  Continental 
training — proved  that;  but  such  histrionic  em- 
broideries— even  when  explanatory  and  appro- 
priate— seemed  irreverent  to  disciples  of  the 
severest  classic  school. 

His  foreign  intonation  in  Shakespearean  verse 
was  an  indisputable  and  unfortunate  blemish, 
but  his  mastery  of  the  English  language  itself 
was  perfect  and  his  enunciation  of  it,  even  in  the 
most  rapid  passages,  admirably  clear  and  cor- 
rect. In  elegance  of  carriage  and  dignified 
courtesy  he  was  inferior  to  none.  His  mockery 
of  Polonius,  though  sufficiently  pointed,  was  not 
offensive,  as  it  is  on  the  lips  of  many  actors,  and 
in  his  rebuke  of  Eosencrantz  and  Guildenstern, 
in  which  he  showed  fine  indignation  and  irony,  he 
did  not  permit  his  anger  to  detract  from  his  per- 
sonal dignity.  In  his  passionate  upbraiding  of 

73 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

his  mother  in  the  closet  scene — in  which  he 
always  stirred  his  audience  to  enthusiasm — he 
was  not  oblivious  of  the  relationship  existing  be- 
tween them.  The  restraint  of  filial  tenderness 
and  compunction  was  denoted  even  in  his  bitter- 
est reproaches.  With  the  grave-diggers  his 
melancholy  and  tolerant  amusement  was  in  ex- 
actly the  right  vein.  His  remarkable  skill  with 
the  foils  gave  special  interest  to  his  duel  with 
Laertes,  and  the  fury  and  rapidity  with  which 
he  dispatched  the  King  were  thrillingly  dramatic. 
His  death  was  princely,  picturesque,  and  pathetic. 
In  soliloquy  he  saw  the  pictorial  and  emotional 
rather  than  the  intellectual  side,  and  in  such 
passages  Booth  unquestionably  surpassed  him; 
but  his  impersonation  as  a  whole,  in  its  propor- 
tion and  consistency  and  its  peculiar  power  of 
personal  fascination,  was  unique. 

In  romance  and  melodrama — in  such  pieces  as 
1  'The  Duke's  Motto,"  " Monte  Cristo,"  and  "No 
Thoroughfare" — Fechter  in  his  prime  was  facile 
princeps.  It  was  as  Armand  Duval  in  "La  Dame 
aux  Camelias"  that  he  made  his  first  great  hit 
in  Paris,  by  the  ardor  of  his  love-making  and  his 
electrical  outburst  in  the  ball  scene.  He  repeated 
these  effects,  much  later  in  life,  in  New  York, 
when  he  was  elderly,  fat,  and  painfully  unfitted 
for  the  part  of  a  juvenile  lover.  At  the  London 

74 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Lyceum,  in  the  sixties,  he  was  a  model  of  grace, 
slim,  lithe,  and  agile  as  a  leopard.  In  action  he 
was  a  picture.  No  one  thought  of  the  absurdities 
in  "The  Duke's  Motto"  when  he  was  the  Laga- 
dere.  His  sincerity  and  fire,  the  dash  and  sure- 
ness  of  his  execution,  the  fervor  of  his  wooing, 
his  infinity  of  melodramatic  resource,  and  his 
perfect  control  of  every  situation,  carried  absolute 
illusion  with  them.  His  first  entrance  as  Lagadere, 
when  he  hurled  himself  into  a  group  of  ruffians, 
scattering  them  like  a  bomb-shell,  and  then,  in  a 
flash,  stood  with  naked  rapier  in  the  center  of 
the  stage,  with  his  military  cloak  on  his  left  arm, 
ready  for  attack  from  any  quarter,  proclaimed 
him  a  hero  of  romance,  equal  to  any  hazard  and 
preordained  to  triumph.  And  in  all  the  crises 
of  his  subsequent  adventures  he  bore  himself 
with  the  same  masterful  authority,  the  same  in- 
fallible precision  of  executive  detail. 

He  was  no  less  fascinating  as  the  pretended 
hunchback  than  he  was  as  the  gallant,  ardent, 
fearless,  and  self-sacrificing  Captain,  and  the 
swiftness  and  effectiveness  of  his  transforma- 
tions proved  the  extent  of  his  technical  skill  and 
his  histrionic  adaptability.  It  is  a  mere  truism 
to  say  that  he  held  his  audiences  spellbound.  Of 
course  "The  Duke's  Motto,"  regarded  as  litera- 
ture or  drama,  was  poor  stuff.  It  had  not  even 

75 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

the  value  of  a  well-written  fairy  tale.  But  it 
was  wholesome  in  sentiment  and,  like  other  kin- 
dred pieces,  was  capable  of  a  sort  of  fictitious 
glorification  by  imaginative,  ecstatic,  and  realistic 
acting.  Herein  is  no  contradiction  in  terms.  Our 
modern  advocates  of  the  "realistic"  drama,  the 
drama  that  reflects  actuality  and  nothing  else, 
denounce  the  romantic  drama  (which,  by  the 
way,  includes  "Othello,"  "Macbeth,"  "Hamlet," 
"Lear,"  and  "Faust")  as  trivial,  false,  puerile, 
and  unworthy  of  our  advanced  stage  of  cultiva- 
tion. If  this  is  true  of  some  romantic  it  is  true 
also  of  much  of  the  realistic  drama,  including 
some  of  Ibsen. 

There  is  romance  and  romance,  realism  and 
realism,  and,  for  myself,  I  believe  that  I  can  ap- 
preciate the  best  of  either  of  them  as  well  as  any- 
body. But  the  point  upon  which  I  now  wish  to 
insist  is  that,  in  stage  representation,  realism  and 
romance  are  closely  akin.  Eomanticism  upon  the 
stage  must  be  made  to  assume  the  present  ap- 
pearance of  realism,  to  bear  the  aspect  of  prob- 
ability and  truth,  before  it  can  have  any  general 
public  appeal  or  command  critical  approval.  Be- 
yond question  the  great  bulk  of  modern,  unliter- 
ary,  romantic  drama  is  unadulterated  bosh.  But 
even  second-rate  romantic  melodrama  of  the  type 
of  "The  Duke's  Motto"  may  be  dignified  and 

70 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

acquire  a  large  measure  of  artistic  and  dramatic 
value  in  representation  by  properly  qualified 
actors.  Romance  is  exaggeration,  and  to  convey 
illusion  in  the  theater  it  must  be  acted — para- 
doxical as  it  may  appear — in  an  artificial  and 
exaggerated  style  to  disguise  the  contrast  be- 
tween its  happenings  and  those  of  every-day 
human  experience.  The  actors,  in  other  words, 
must  comport  themselves  in  accordance  with  the 
spirit  of  the  fanciful  prescribed  circumstances. 

And  this  they  can  not  do  without  special  train- 
ing and  a  certain  amount  of  special  capacity. 
Our  contemporary  actors  certainly  have  not  the 
one,  even  if  they  have  the  other,  and  that  is  why 
romance  can  not  now  be  made  to  succeed.  Con- 
ditions seem  to  be  changing,  and  perhaps  we  are 
on  the  road  to  its  successful  revival.  Fechter 
had  the  special  capacity,  or  genius,  which  enabled 
him,  as  it  were,  to  establish  the  incredible  by  cir- 
cumstantial evidence,  and  he  had  a  group  of 
players — Jordan,  Widdicomb,  Sam  Emery,  Kate 
Terry,  and  others  scarcely  inferior — who  gave 
him  the  ablest  support.  He  made  "The  Duke's 
Motto'*  and  other  plays  of  the  same  caliber,  such 
as  "Bel  Demonio,"  famous  during  his  dazzling 
career,  but  no  other  player  has  been  able  to  dupli- 
cate his  success  in  them,  though  many  have  tried. 
His  great  achievement  was  his  illustration  of 

77 


the  art  of  romantic  acting  and  its  power  to 
invest  even  inferior  work  with  noble  and  inspir- 
ing attributes. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  dwell  at  length  upon  his 
various  romantic  characters,  upon  his  Armand, 
Claude  Melnotte,  Count  of  Monte  Cristo,  Edgar 
of  Eavenswood  (in  "The  Bride  of  Lammer- 
moor"),  Louis  and  Fabien  di  Franchi  (in  "The 
Corsican  Brothers"),  Belphegor  ("The  Mounte- 
bank"), Macaire,  and  the  rest.  He  succeeded  in 
all  of  them  because  he  vitalized  them  with  this 
romantic  glamor,  which  was  the  direct  result  of 
his  personality,  his  temperament,  and  his  efflores- 
cent artistic  style.  His  "business"  in  old  parts 
was  seldom  new,  but  it  was  executed  with  a 
superior  finish  and  a  more  conclusive  air.  Some- 
times, indeed,  he  introduced  some  startling 
stroke,  as  in  "Macaire."  When  shot,  as  he 
reached  the  top  of  the  stairway  by  which  he  was 
trying  to  escape,  he  fell  headlong  backward  down 
the  whole  flight,  a  feat  which  only  a  most  accom- 
plished athlete  could  venture  upon  without  en- 
dangering his  neck.  But  his  performance  of  the 
Swiss,  Jules  Obenreizer,  in  "No  Thoroughfare," 
was  in  a  somewhat  different  category.  This  was 
a  veritable  creation,  in  which  cunning,  cruelty, 
and  treachery,  lurking  beneath  a  suave  and  in- 
gratiating exterior,  were  indicated  with  consum- 

78 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

mate  art.  The  evil,  romantic  glamor  with  which 
this  super-scoundrel  was  invested  raised  this 
embodiment  far  above  the  level  of  the  ordinary 
but  effective  melodramatic  stuff  by  which  it  was 
surrounded.  The  tigerish  stealth  and  ferocity 
exhibited  in  his  attempted  assassination  of  the 
sleeping  Vendale  was  terrifying.  He  played  this 
part  afterward  in  New  York,  where  he  extin- 
guished the  memory  of  that  admirable  actor,  W. 
J.  Florence,  in  the  same  part  simply  because  he 
added  the  emphasis  of  romantic  spirit  and  action 
to  realistic  detail. 

His  Othello  was  a  bit  of  picturesque,  passion- 
ate, over-sentimentalized  melodrama,  neither 
grand  nor  tragic,  but  his  lago  was  an  excellent 
piece  of  work.  For  his  Shakespearean  campaign 
at  the  Lyceum  he  offered  Phelps  an  engagement, 
asking  him  whether  he  would  play  the  Ghost  in 
" Hamlet."  "Who  is  to  play  the  Prince!"  said 
the  gruff  old  hero  of  The  Wells.  "Myself,"  was 
the  reply.  "Well,  damn  your  impudence!" 
roared  Phelps,  and  the  negotiations  ended  then 
and  there.  All  the  old-school  actors  and  critics 
deemed  impudence  an  integral  part  of  Fechter's 
artistic  composition.  The  man  had  his  weak- 
nesses, and  paid  the  bitter  penalty  of  them  in 
full,  but  he  was  a  genius. 


VI 


THE  STAGE  IN  NEW  YORK  IN  1870 

IN  retrospect  many  figures  of  sterling  players 
present  themselves  to  the  mind's  eye.  The 
stage  was  the  poorer  when  Kate  Terry — elder 
sister  of  the  more  illustrious  Ellen — who  shared 
in  several  of  Fechter's  early  triumphs,  married 
and  retired  into  private  life.  She  was  less  gifted 
with  radiant  charm  and  personal  witchery  than 
her  sister,  but  was  a  graceful  and  attractive 
maiden  and  an  actress  of  sound  training  and 
marked  natural  ability.  The  heroines  of  Fechter's 
romances  she  played  with  infinite  refinement, 
piquancy,  and  fervor,  and  no  small  emotional 
force.  Success  attended  her  in  Juliet  and 
Ophelia,  but  as  the  fair  Capulet  she  was  eclipsed 
by  Stella  Colas  and  Neilson.  She  left  the  stage 
when  she  seemed  to  be  assured  of  a  brilliant 
future.  Not  long  ago,  after  the  lapse  of  many 
years,  she  reappeared  before  the  footlights.  A 
widow,  she  hoped  to  lend  distinction  to  the  debut 
of  her  daughter,  Kate  Terry  Lewis,  and,  per- 
haps, to  take  up  the  broken  thread  of  her  own 

80 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

career.  But  her  experiment  was  a  failure.  The 
source  of  her  former  inspiration,  long  untended, 
had  run  dry. 

Stella  Colas  was  a  comet  who  blazed  for  a 
season  in  the  theatrical  firmament  and  then  van- 
ished. She  married  well  and  still  lives  (1916), 
rich  and  honored,  in  Europe.  Her  Juliet  set  all 
the  critics  by  the  ears  and  crowded  the  theater  to 
the  roof.  Some  of  them  discovered  in  her  the 
perfect  paragon,  a  histrionic  nonpareil;  others 
proclaimed  her  a  clever  novice  whose  tragic  fits 
consisted  chiefly  of  inarticulate  rant.  That  her 
English  was  broken  and  occasionally  indistinct 
— that  here  and  there,  but  very  rarely,  a  phrase 
was  unintelligible  to  persons  not  conversant  with 
the  text — can  not  be  denied.  But  these  blem- 
ishes, to  my  mind,  were  inconsiderable  in  com- 
parison with  the  fascinating  charm,  the  dominat- 
ing intelligence,  and  the  emotional  power  of  the 
whole  impersonation.  Physically,  in  her  slim, 
bright,  animated,  innocent,  girlish  beauty,  she 
was  an  ideal  Juliet.  In  the  balcony  scene  she  was 
a  vision  of  delight.  She  distilled  all  the  fragrant 
essences  of  that  marvelous  conception  and 
blended  them  all  into  one  exquisite  manifestation 
of  innocent  rapture.  In  the  bedroom  scene  she 
rose  to  a  pitch  of  frenzied,  anticipatory  horror 
which  was  thrilling.  Her  whole  being  was 

81 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

wrenched  and  racked  in  a  paroxysm  of  mingled 
terror  and  desperation.' 

Old  John  Eyder  was  a  typical  specimen  of  the 
"legitimate"  actor.  There  was  no  flash  of  in- 
spiration in  him,  but  he  could  act  anything  and 
act  it  well,  while  in  all  matters  of  stage  practice 
and  tradition  he  was  an  unimpeachable  authority. 
He  was  a  large,  heavy,  dignified  man,  who  had 
been  reared  in  the  Kemble  and  Macready  school 
and,  perhaps  unconsciously,  imitated  the  manner 
of  the  great  John  Philip.  His  declamation  was 
fastidiously  correct  and  charged  with  sonorous 
music.  So  far  as  I  can  remember,  I  only  saw  him 
act  once,  though  I  often  encountered  him  off  the 
stage — and  that  was  in  the  old  melodrama  "The 
Miller  and  His  Men,"  in  which  he  was  tre- 
mendous. Then  there  was  Hermann  Vezin,  the 
American  actor,  who  passed  the  greater  part  of 
his  long  life  in  England  and  was  regarded  as  one 
of  the  ablest  actors  and  most  accomplished  artists 
in  the  profession.  No  question  was  ever  raised 
about  his  all-around  ability,  but  he  bore  the  un- 
fortunate reputation  of  being  an  unlucky  man. 
There  were  whispers  in  theatrical  haunts  that 
he  had  "the  evil  eye."  The  superstitions  of  the 
stage  folk  constitute  a  pregnant  comment  upon 
their  general  intelligence.  '.  It  is  certain  that, 
through  no  fault  or  delinquency  of  his  own,  he  was 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

associated  with  a  great  number  of  theatrical  dis- 
asters and  forlorn  hopes.  But  he  was  in  great 
request  as  a  stage  manager  and  teacher  and  was 
a  recognized  scholar.  In  comparatively  recent 
days,  when  Irving  fell  sick  it  was  Hermann  Vezin 
who  was  called  upon  in  the  emergency  to  fill  his 
place  as  Macbeth,  and  he  did  it  so  effectually  that 
many  persons  thought  the  performance  improved 
by  his  participation.  I  remember  a  notable  per- 
formance by  him,  with  Bandmann,  in ' '  The  Right- 
ful Heir"  of  Bulwer-Lytton,  a  piece  long  since 
forgotten.  Henry  Compton  made  a  hit  in  a  bur- 
lesque of  it  called  "The  Frightful  Hair." 

Vezin  married  Mrs.  Charles  Young,  an  actress 
of  wide  range,  who  assuredly  would  have  been 
accepted  as  a  star  of  the  first  magnitude  to-day. 
She  won  her  place,  not  by  beauty  or  by  adver- 
tisement, but  by  sheer  ability.  I  saw  her  as  the 
Lady  in  "Comus,"  Lady  Teazle,  and  Cordelia, 
among  other  parts,  and  she  was  admirable  in  all. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Billington  were  pillars  of  Ben 
Webster's  company  at  the  Adelphi  for  years  and 
bore  prominent  parts  in  a  wide  variety  of  plays. 
Mrs.  Billington  survives  in  London  (at  the  pres- 
ent writing),  a  respected  nonagenarian.  She  was 
a  contemporary  of  the  Keeleys.  Neither  Fred 
Robson  nor  Walter  Montgomery  belonged  to  the 
older  school  of  actors,  but  they  must  not  be  en- 

83 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

tirely  overlooked.  Robson  undoubtedly  had  some 
special  gifts,  but  I  very  much  doubt  his  posses- 
sion of  real  genius.  I  saw  him  in  "The  Porter's 
Knot"  and  in  the  burlesque  of  "Medea."  I  real- 
ized the  potent,  homely  pathos  of  the  first  and 
the  genuine  humor  and  startling  mock  passion  of 
the  other,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  me  that  he  was 
unique  in  either  characterization.  I  was  young 
then  and  my  opinion  may  not  be  worth  much, 
but  the  fact  that  he  did  not  impress  me  very 
deeply  in  those  impressionable  days  has  its  sig- 
nificance. I  should  rank  him  with  Harry  Beckett 
or  Dominick  Murray — or  perhaps  just  a  little 
higher — both  of  whom  were  capable  of  very 
striking  outbursts  of  cowardly  or  venomous  pas- 
sion. Such  demonstrations  do  not  necessarily 
indicate  genius,  especially  when  there  is  a  model 
to  copy  from.  Cissy  Loftus  gives  a  capital  imi- 
tation of  one  of  Sarah  Bernhardt's  torrential 
outbursts  in  "Phedre." 

Walter  Montgomery,  the  young  American 
actor  who  committed  suicide  in  such  tragic  cir- 
cumstances when  his  star  was  rising  very  brightly 
upon  the  theatrical  horizon,  must  not  be  alto- 
gether forgotten.  There  is  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  he  was  on  the  high  road  to  fame  and 
fortune.  Nature  had  bestowed  upon  him  a  strik- 
ing and  virile  personality,  high  ambition,  energy, 

84 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

and  keen  dramatic  intelligence.  His  one  handi- 
cap was  a  somewhat  throaty  and  unmusical  enun- 
ciation. But  his  voice  was  strong,  his  carriage 
gallant,  and  his  gesture  bold  and  free.  He  had 
fire,  sentiment,  and  pathos.  His  Claude  Melnotte, 
less  pictorial,  sentimental,  and  romantic  than 
Fechter's,  was  admirable  both  in  its  boyish  ardor 
and  its  despairing  passion.  In  Hotspur  he  was 
the  embodiment  of  choleric  impatience  and  fierce 
martial  spirit,  held  partly  in  check  by  rough 
geniality.  He  was  "impiger,  iracundus,  in- 
exorabilis,  acer,"  impetuous,  irritable,  stubborn, 
and  prickly.  It  was  a  brilliant  performance.  He 
was  equally  effective  in  the  easier  character  of 
Falconbridge  and  played  King  John  with  in- 
telligent comprehension,  although  in  subtlety  and 
finish,  of  course,  his  impersonation  was  far  in- 
ferior to  that  of  Phelps.  But  it  was  better  than 
MantelPs  and  he  was  only  a  beginner.  With 
him  let  me  close  these  English  reminiscences.  I 
was  in  New  York  when  he  killed  himself,  the  vic- 
tim of  a  terrible  disillusionment. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  November,  1869,  that 
I  first  landed  in  New  York,  and  accident  ordained 
that  on  the  evening  of  the  same  day  I  should  go 
to  the  theater.  The  house  was  Niblo's  Garden, 
long  since  vanished,  where  Lotta  Crabtree  was 
acting  Little  Nell  and  the  Marchioness  in  one  of 

85 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

the  vilest  of  the  many  vile  misrepresentations  of 
Dickens.  Like  Lydia  Thompson,  the  heroine  of 
my  earliest  English  dramatic  experience,  she  was 
a  typical  product  of  her  period.  Here,  as  in  the 
mother  country,  the  old  order  of  the  stage  was 
quickly  passing  away;  the  higher  drama,  both 
tragic  and  comic,  was  falling  into  deeper  disre- 
pute for  lack  of  adequate  interpreters,  and  the 
boards  were  more  and  more  fully  occupied  by 
modern  domestic  or  ' l  social ' '  farce  or  melodrama 
of  no  literary  or  dramatic  consequence,  even  when 
entertaining;  by  pieces  purely  spectacular  or 
sensational,  by  adaptations  from  the  French,  by 
burlesque — which,  however,  had  not  then  sunk  to 
its  present  depths  of  degradation — and  by  all 
kinds  of  freakish  and  acrobatic  frivolity.  Negro 
minstrelsy  was  still  in  its  heyday,  offering  real 
melody  and  a  humor  that  was  often  genuine  if 
always  grotesque.  It  had  not  yet  been  revolu- 
tionized and  ruined  by  the  "mastodonic"  notions 
of  Jack  Haverly. 

Burton,  Blake,  Murdoch,  J.  K.  Hackett,  J.  B. 
Booth,  G.  V.  Brooke,  J.  W.  Wallack,  and  other 
players  of  the  first  rank  were  dead  or  in  retire- 
ment. Edwin  Forrest,  diseased  and  enfeebled, 
though  still  potent  in  "Lear"  and  "Richelieu," 
was  nearing  his  end.  Charlotte  Cushman  was 
meditating  her  final  farewell,  Edwin  Booth  had 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

not  reissued  from  temporary  eclipse.  A  few  stock 
companies  still  existed,  notably  those  at  Wai- 
lack's  in  New  York,  Mrs.  John  Drew's  Chestnut 
Street  Theater  in  Philadelphia,  and  the  Boston 
Museum.  But  these  were  in  process  of  decay, 
unable  to  make  head  against  the  trend  of  the 
times  and  the  changing  principles  of  manage- 
ment. 

The  days  of  trusts  and  syndicates  were  yet  to 
come,  but  these  beneficent  institutions,  pro- 
fessedly organized,  like  all  other  monopolies  of 
the  sort,  for  the  benefit  of  the  public,  were  but 
natural  developments  of  the  star  and  circuit  sys- 
tems already  pretty  well  established.  The  "star" 
system,  enabling  speculative  managers  to  dis- 
pense with  expensive  companies  and  to  offer  to 
the  public  the  alternative  of  paying  for  represen- 
tations by  one  fairly  capable  actor  "supported" 
by  a  parcel  of  supernumeraries,  or  going  without 
the  theater  altogether,  was  the  beginning  of  all 
the  mischief.  When  a  group  of  speculators  once 
conceived  the  idea  of  securing  all  the  theaters 
and  thus  becoming  virtual  dictators  of  all  theat- 
rical policies — to  the  extinction  of  competition — 
the  mischief  was  completed.  One  by  one  the 
stock  companies — the  only  real  schools  of  acting 
— were  extirpated,  until  to-day  (1900)  there  is 
scarcely  one  worthy  of  the  name  in  existence  in 

87 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

this  country.  Fortunately  there  is  reason  for  be- 
lieving that  this  condition  may  not  be  permanent. 

So  long  as  the  supply  of  well-equipped  actors, 
trained  after  the  ancient  method,  lasted  it  was 
possible  to  find  leading  performers  who  without 
any  very  gross  flattery  might  be  described  as 
stars  when  compared  with  their  associates.  But 
this  source  was  exhausted  long  ago.  At  any  rate 
they  were  actors  of  the  first  class,  if  not  always 
at  the  head  of  it.  None  of  them  has  had  a  suc- 
cessor. There  is  not  on  the  American  stage  to- 
day one  solitary  performer,  male  or  female,  of 
native  origin,  who  is  capable  of  first-class  work 
in  either  the  tragic  or  comic  department  of  the 
literary  imaginative  drama.  In  modern  drama 
we  have  some  excellent  performers,  but  even  in 
this  no  great  one.  Why  is  this  I  It  is  because  the 
wells  of  histrionic  talent  have  been  choked.  As  I 
have  said  before,  there  are  indications  that  they 
may  before  long  be  reopened.  Already  there  is 
a  group  of  rising  young  English  actors  of  both 
sexes  likely  to  do  big  things  in  big  drama  in  the 
near  future.  Where  do  they  come  from?  Almost 
without  exception  from  the  stock  company  of  F. 
R.  Benson. 

But  to  get  back  to  Lotta  and  reminiscence.  Of 
no  artistic  importance  in  herself,  a  theatrical 
will-o'-the-wisp,  she  was  yet  a  striking  illustra- 

88 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

tion — as  were  Maggie  Mitchell,  Minnie  Palmer, 
and  others  of  their  type — of  the  slender  pro- 
fessional capital  with  which  popularity  and  for- 
tune may  be  won  before  the  footlights  in  a  de- 
generate age.  She  was  an  attractive  little  crea- 
ture with  a  pretty,  saucy  face,  a  fairy  figure,  and 
wonderful  agility.  It  was  in  the  far  West — in 
a  mining  camp,  I  believe — that  she  first  charmed 
rough  audiences  by  her  dancing,  banjo-playing, 
and  singing.  She  attracted  the  attention  of  some 
theatrical  agent  on  the  lookout  for  a  novelty, 
was  diligently  and  successfully  paragraphed, 
brought  East,  and  introduced  as  a  prodigy  of 
humor  and  pathos.  She  was  a  bright  and  piquant 
morsel,  prankish,  audacious,  with  a  pleasant 
aroma  of  girlish  innocence  about  her,  and  she 
''caught  on.'*  For  years  the  public  adored  her. 
She  appeared  in  many  parts  and  played  them  all 
in  exactly  the  same  way.  She  never  developed 
or  suggested  any  real  dramatic  force  or  adapta- 
bility. Her  Marchioness  was  an  amusing  figure 
in  its  dirt  and  rags  and  childish  make-believe, 
but  was  informed  by  no  vestige  of  the  Dickens 
spirit,  while  the  so-called  pathos  of  her  Little 
Nell  was  the  emptiest  and  dreariest  of  affecta- 
tion. But  she  had  splendid  press  notices,  as  if 
she  were  a  luminary  of  purest  ray  serene.  Mod- 
ern press  criticism  has  a  good  deal  to  answer  for. 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

I  have  had  a  share  in  it  for  forty  years  and  do 
not  wish  to  shirk  my  own  responsibilities.  As 
I  look  over  my  old  notes  I  realize  that  I  have 
written  some  fearful  rubbish.  I  hope  now  that 
I  have  learned  to  temper  the  heat  of  juvenile  en- 
thusiasm in  the  cold  bath  of  experience. 


90 


vn 


WALLACE'S  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  JOHN  GILBERT 

BETWEEN  1870  and  1874  my  theatrical  oppor- 
tunities were  but  few.  I  had  a  glimpse  of  Forrest 
— on  the  platform,  not  on  the  stage.  I  saw  Salvini 
(to  whom  I  shall  return  presently)  in  several  of 
his  greatest  parts  when  he  first  visited  this 
country  with  the  Italian  company  which  included 
Piamonti;  I  heard  Wambold,  the  sweet  tenor  of 
the  old  San  Francisco  Minstrels,  sing;  I  mar- 
veled at  the  scenic  glories  and  the  unutterable 
stupidity  of  "The  Black  Crook' '  (it  is  said  that 
no  word  of  the  original  dialogue  was  retained  and 
that  the  author,  Barras,  reaped  a  fortune  out  of 
his  copyright  in  the  title  only) ;  I  attended  a 
variety  of  burlesques,  including  "Kenilworth," 
with  Lydia  Thompson  as  Leicester  (I  think)  and 
Harry  Beckett  as  an  extraordinarily  comic  Eliza- 
beth (I  know),  and  I  saw  some  modern  plays  and 
melodramas,  mostly  of  indifferent  quality — on 
the  whole,  a  poor  ha'porth  of  bread  to  an  intoler- 
able quantity  of  sack.  But  in  the  latter  year  I 
first  undertook  the  task  of  a  dramatic  writer,  and 
from  that  time  up  to  the  present  I  have  seen 

91 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

pretty  nearly  everything  in  the  New  York  theat- 
rical world  worth  seeing  and  much  that  was  not. 
Moreover,  my  records  are  tolerably  complete. 
It  is  my  purpose,  in  these  papers,  to  cull  from 
them  such  matter  as  I  hope  may  prove  interest- 
ing and  fresh  to  the  present  generation,  dealing 
with  the  period  between  1874  and  1885 — remem- 
bered only  by  the  elders — and  dwelling  only  upon 
salient  features,  personages,  and  incidents. 

This  was  the  period  of  the  gradual  decline  of 
Wallack's,  which  for  many  years  had  been  gen- 
erally recognized  as  the  leading  comedy  theater 
in  the  country.  In  1874  its  prestige  stood  as 
high  as  ever  and  the  company,  even  after  the  loss 
of  such  players  as  J.  W.  Wallack,  Madeleine  Hen- 
riques,  Mrs.  John  Hoey,  Mary  Gannon,  Charles 
Fisher,  and  other  notabilities,  was  not  percepti- 
bly weakened.  It  included  among  others  Lester 
Wallack,  John  Gilbert,  W.  E.  Floyd,  Madame 
Ponisi,  H.  J.  Montague,  Ada  Dyas,  lone  Burke, 
J.  W.  Carroll,  J.  B.  Polk,  Harry  Beckett,  Edward 
Arnott,  Erne  Germon,  Mrs.  Sefton,  and  E.  M. 
Holland,  a  list  which,  in  its  assurance  of  general 
efficiency  in  both  old  and  modern  comedy,  it 
would  indeed  be  difficult  if  not  impossible  to 
parallel  to-day.  Old  playgoers  of  that  time  used 
to  complain  that  in  its  representations  of 
standard  comedy  the  theater  had  deteriorated  in 

92 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

style  and  spirit,  and  this  may  have  been  true — 
probably  was,  as  the  younger  members  of  the 
company  never  had  the  advantages  of  the  stock 
training  enjoyed  by  the  veterans;  but  the  ex- 
perience of  the  latter,  with  the  traditions  and 
discipline  of  the  house,  combined  to  remedy  or 
conceal  such  deficiencies. 

In  any  case  it  is  certain  that  no  such  adequate 
interpretations  of  artificial  comedy  have  been 
given  in  this  neighborhood  since  the  Wallack 
organization  was  dissolved.  To  all  the  require- 
ments of  the  modern  drama  it  was  fully  equal, 
and  it  had  during  the  ten  years  under  considera- 
tion much  modern  work  to  do.  As  a  matter  of 
actual  count,  three-fifths  of  the  performances 
given  were  modern  stuff,  and  more  than  one-fifth 
exceedingly  unworthy  modern  stuff.  Flaunting, 
brazen  melodrama,  pieces  like  "Youth,"  "The 
World,"  and  "Spellbound,"  and  hilarious  im- 
proprieties such  as  "Forbidden  Fruit,"  found 
their  way  to  the  honored  stage  of  Wallack 's  only 
too  often  in  later  days.  In  common  justice  it 
should  be  added  that  they  were,  as  a  rule,  admir- 
ably acted.  Many  of  the  modern  plays,  of  course, 
were  of  a  superior  order.  Two  of  them  brought 
prosperity  to  the  theater  in  1874-5.  These  were 
"The  Romance  of  a  Poor  Young  Man" — in  which 
H.  J.  Montague  made  his  first  decided  hit  in  New 

93 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

York,  and  J.  W.  Carroll  furnished  a  very  strik- 
ing impersonation  of  the  old  privateersman — and 
"The  Shaughraun, "  one  of  the  best  of  Dion 
Boucicault's  Irish  dramas  and  completely  charac- 
teristic of  his  methods.  This  latter  piece  proved 
one  of  the  biggest  financial  successes  recorded  in 
theatrical  annals.  It  packed  the  house  for  many 
months.  Some  of  its  popularity,  especially  in 
the  galleries,  was  due  doubtless  to  its  artful  ap- 
peal to  the  Irish  patriotic  spirit,  which  is  "ag'in* 
the  government."  Fenianism  then  was  more 
rampant  in  New  York  than  in  Ireland  itself. 

The  play  was  theatrical  patchwork,  but  the 
arrangement  and  joinery  were  neat  and  skilful 
and  some  of  the  stage  effects  ingenious  and  strik- 
ing. Several  of  the  personages,  if  unoriginal, 
were  thoroughly  human  and  alive.  John  Gilbert 
played  a  parish  priest  with  a  rare  blend  of  genial 
benevolence,  authority,  tenderness,  and  pathos. 
Ada  Dyas,  a  most  capable  actress,  as  the  patriotic 
heroine  in  love  with  the  British  officer  who  was 
hunting  her  Fenian  brother,  furnished  an  ex- 
ceedingly clever  sketch  of  wayward,  passionate, 
and  perplexed  girlhood.  Harry  Beckett,  one  of 
the  many  capable  actors  produced  in  the  school 
of  burlesque,  made  a  sensation  with  his  exhibi- 
tion of  frenzied  cowardice  in  the  part  of  the 
wretched  traitor,  Harvey  Duff,  while  H.  J.  Mon- 

94 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

tague,  Edward  Arnott,  and  J.  B.  Polk  did  ex- 
cellent work  in  other  prominent  characters.  For 
himself  Dion  had  devised,  not  created,  a  charac- 
ter in  Conn,  the  Shaughraun,  which  fitted  him 
like  a  glove.  A  humorous,  reckless,  loyal,  and 
mischievous  scapegrace,  he  brought  life  and 
laughter,  with  now  and  then  a  dash  of  pathos, 
into  every  scene.  He  had  prepared  a  variation 
of  Lady  Gay  Spanker's  fox-hunting  speech  which 
he  delivered  with  sparkling  vivacity.  The  great 
flaw  in  the  play  was  a  "wake"  scene,  which  was 
devoid  of  truth  and  good  taste,  though  full  of  the 
primitive  bumpkin  jokes  which  may  be  depended 
upon  to  set  the  galleries  in  a  roar. 

That  was  Dion  Boucicault  all  over.  He  had 
artistic  instincts  and  ambitions,  but  a  vision  of 
"good  business"  could  blind  him  to  all  sense  of 
fitness  and  proportion.  He  was  not  often,  how- 
ever, guilty  of  such  a  blunder  in  theatrical  tactics 
as  when  he  persuaded  Lester  Wallack  to  produce 
his  "Rafael,"  an  adaptation  which  he  had  made 
of  that  sultry  French  piece,  "Les  Filles  de 
Marbre,"  with  Ada  Dyas  as  the  enchanting, 
frigid,  and  pitiless  Marco  and  the  fragile  H.  J. 
Montague,  of  all  men  in  the  world,  as  the  victim 
of  devastating  passion.  It  would  have  been  diffi- 
cult to  find  two  actors  more  utterly  unfitted  by 
nature  for  the  parts  assigned  to  them.  The  ex- 

95 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

periment,  of  course,  was  a  disastrous  failure. 
Few  phenomena  are  more  puzzling  to  the  ordi- 
nary lay  observer  than  the  constant  inability  of 
experienced  actors  and  managers  to  realize,  even 
at  rehearsal,  the  radical  defects  in  a  new  play  or 
the  manifest  incompatibility  between  it  and  the 
capacity  of  the  selected  players. 

This  experiment  had  one  agreeable  conse- 
quence. It  induced  Mr.  Wallack  to  fall  back  upon 
legitimate  comedy,  of  which,  in  New  York,  he 
had  a  virtual  monopoly.  He  began  with  a  revival 
of  Holcroft's  "The  Road  to  Ruin,"  surrendering 
his  own  part  of  Young  Dornton,  in  which  he  was 
in  his  younger  days  particularly  successful,  to 
H.  J.  Montague,  for  whom  he  entertained  a  warm 
personal  affection.  This,  as  it  proved,  was  an 
unfortunate  decision,  for  Montague,  an  attractive 
and  very  clever  actor  in  light  comedy  of  the 
Robertsonian  order,  was  out  of  his  element  in 
parts  requiring  a  more  distinguished  and  virile 
style  and  robuster  emotion.  He  was  one  of  the 
weak  spots  in  an  otherwise  capable  and  spirited 
representation.  There  seems  to  be  no  present 
likelihood  of  this  sterling  old  piece  revisiting  the 
glimpses  of  the  moon,  more's  the  pity.  It  is  old- 
fashioned  in  manner,  of  course,  but  it  is  full  of 
vigorous  characterization,  amusing  and  moving 
incident,  and  of  humor  that  is  true  and  honest 

96 


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SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

if  in  places  a  trifle  broad,  while  it  enforces  a 
wholesome  moral  without  too  much  sermonizing. 
In  illustrating  the  influences  of  heredity  and  en- 
vironment it  is  modern  and  scientific.  But  mod- 
ern actors  inevitably  would  make  a  sad  hash  of 
it.  The  Wallack  company  knew  how  to  give  it 
snap  and  go.  John  Gilbert,  the  most  famous  of 
"old  men"  for  almost  two  generations,  was  a 
tower  of  strength  in  it.  His  Old  Dornton  was 
among  his  most  notable  creations — comparable 
with  his  Sir  Harcourt  Courtly,  his  Sir  Peter 
Teazle,  and  his  Sir  Anthony  Absolute — an  ideal 
portrait  of  a  substantial  old  English  merchant, 
dignified,  urbane,  and  genial,  weak  only  in  his 
doting  affection  for  his  prodigal  son.  The  fin- 
ished art  with  which  he  portrayed  the  internal 
struggle  between  his  natural  indignation  at  his 
son's  follies  and  his  paternal  devotion  was  a 
triumph  of  emotional  analysis.  In  the  scene 
when,  in  a  melting  mood  after  a  passionate  out- 
break, he  refuses  to  say  "good-night"  to  the 
wayward  youth,  the  pathos  of  his  outraged  but 
pitying  love  was  irresistible.  He  was  perfect  in 
an  embodiment  of  this  kind,  not  because  it  was 
suited  to  his  personality  or  because  he  had  made 
a  specialty  of  "old  men"  (though  he  was  forced  to 
do  so  by  his  unrivaled  excellence  in  such  charac- 
terizations), but  because  in  his  youth  he  had 

97 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

been  drilled  thoroughly  in  every  department  of 
the  drama,  including  high  tragedy,  had  mastered 
every  nuance  of  the  spoken  word  and  every 
mystery  of  stage  technique.  In  other  words,  he 
was  a  finished  actor. 

Madame  Ponisi,  another  graduate  of  the  stock- 
company  system,  was  an  invaluable  member  of 
the  Wallack  company.  In  stage  knowledge  she  was 
almost  the  equal  of  Gilbert  himself,  though  far 
behind  him  in  special  ability.  If  seldom  brilliant, 
she  was  always  thoroughly  intelligent  and  com- 
petent. In  her  time  she  had  played  many  of  the 
principal  tragic  and  comic  characters  of  Shake- 
speare. She  was  a  sound  and  impressive  Lady 
Macbeth,  was  admirable  in  the  old  women  of 
artificial  comedy,  as  the  aristocratic  dames  of  mod- 
ern social  drama,  in  domestic  plays,  farce  or  melo- 
drama. In  "The  Eoad  to  Buin"  she  enacted  the 
Widow  "Warren  in  exactly  the  right  vein  of  full- 
blooded  humor.  And  Harry  Beckett's  Goldfinch, 
though  it  had  more  rollicking  fun  than  artistic 
cunning  in  it,  was  a  most  effective  performance. 
Burlesque  may  be  a  most  efficient  school  for  the 
development  of  comic  invention  and  significant 
pantomime  in  a  young  actor  gifted  with  comic 
intuition.  The  contrast  between  Silky  and  Sulky 
was  capitally  emphasized  by  E.  M.  Holland  and 
J.  Wt  Carroll,  the  former  player  even  in  those 

98 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

days  showing  much  of  the  careful  finish  that  was 
to  distinguish  his  later  work.  The  general  repre- 
sentation was  clothed  with  an  appropriate  atmos- 
phere and  spirit,  the  only  inharmonious  detail 
in  the  scheme  being  the  anemic  Young  Dornton 
of  Montague. 

"The  Eoad  to  Ruin"  was  followed  after  a 
short  interval  by  "The  Rivals."  I  propose  as 
a  matter  of  convenience  to  speak  of  these  old 
comedy  revivals  in  their  order,  without  regard  to 
intervening  pieces,  of  which  the  principal  will 
be  referred  to  later  on.  In  "The  Rivals,"  of 
course,  Mr.  Gilbert  was  supreme.  His  Sir 
Anthony  has  never  been  equalled  anywhere  in  the 
last  half  century,  or  approached  except  by  Chip- 
pendalej  William  Warren,  and  Samuel  Phelps. 
It  is  not  necessary  to  expatiate  upon  it  now, 
since  it  has  been  the  subject  of  innumerable 
eulogies  and  is  still  within  the  memory  of  all 
but  the  younger  playgoers.  To  the  eye  it  pre- 
sented a  perfect  realization  of  unreasoning  abso- 
lutism. An  imperious,  quick,  and  fiery  temper 
was  revealed  in  the  aggressive  glances  of  the 
eyes,  the  stubborn  set  of  the  features,  the  heavy, 
determined  step,  the  ready  menace  in  the  swing 
of  the  heavy  cane,  in  every  note  of  the  resolute, 
clear-cut  voice.  The  apoplectic  fury  of  its  sud- 
den cholers  would  have  been  terrifying  if  it  had 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

not  been  for  the  humorous  effect  of  them,  and 
volcanic  as  these  explosions  were,  they  were  yet 
governed  by  the  nicest  sense  of  proportion  and 
emphasis. 

His  executive  skill  was  so  sure  that  there  was 
no  suggestion  of  the  artistic  calculation  by  which 
it  was  directed.  Many  comedians — William  H. 
Crane,  for  instance — have  the  gift  of  choler,  but 
one  of  their  outbursts  is  just  like  another.  Gil- 
bert's were  diversified  by  all  manner  of  subtle 
gradations.  In  every  detail  his  Sir  Anthony  was 
alive — a  marvel  of  vital  consistency.  W.  B. 
Floyd,  another  of  the  trained  veterans,  was 
scarcely  second  to  John  Brougham  himself  in  the 
part  of  Sir  Lucius.  His  impersonation  was  not 
quite  so  mellow,  perhaps,  as  that  of  the  famous 
Irishman,  but  it  was  a  delightful  sketch,  brisk, 
gay,  gallant,  and  altogether  Hibernian.  Madame 
Ponisi  was  as  good  a  Mrs.  Malaprop  as  any  one 
could  reasonably  wish  to  see,  though  Mrs.  John 
Drew  brought  to  the  part  a  more  elaborate  affec- 
tation and  more  incisive  speech.  Edward  Arnott 
conferred  upon  Jack  Absolute  the  virility  which 
Montague  lacked,  while  Ada  Dyas  found  in  Lydia 
Languish  a  character  well  suited  to  her  style  and 
temperament. 

It  was  in  1876  that  Lester  Wallack,  after  a 
lapse  of  six  years,  revived  Mrs.  Centlivre's  com- 

100 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

edy,  "The  Wonder,"  reappearing  himself  in  the 
character  of  Don  Felix,  a  character  in  which  he 
had  always  appeared  to  advantage.  He  was 
essentially  a  romantic  actor  as  well  as  an  accom- 
plished comedian,  and  the  romantic  coloring  with 
which  he  decorated  much  of  his  work  imparted  a 
special  charm  to  his  Benedick  and  kindred  parts. 
I  should  hesitate  to  place  him  among  the  "great" 
actors,  for  his  range  was  not  wide  and  he  had  no 
eloquence  in  the  profounder  emotions,  but  what 
he  did  do,  in  his  own  proper  sphere  of  romance 
and  comedy,  he  did  preeminently  well.  Nature 
had  been  very  bounteous  to  him.  With  his  raven 
locks  and  flashing  dark  eyes,  his  fine  figure  and 
superb  carriage,  he  was  one  of  the  handsomest 
men  of  his  time,  and  naturally  he  was  adored  by 
the  fair  sex. 

There  was  no  suspicion  of  effeminate  dandyism 
about  him.  His  temperament  was  indisputably 
virile  and  all  his  embodiments  had  a  most  at- 
tractive manliness.  He  could  be  a  fervent  and 
fascinating  but  not  a  passionate  lover.  He  could 
never  have  given  a  good  performance  of  Romeo, 
Armand  Duval,  or  Claude  Melnotte ;  nor  could  he 
express  profound  pathos,  although  he  could  upon 
occasion  be  sympathetic  and  affecting,  but  as  the 
man  of  cool  resource  and  prompt  action,  in  all 
the  lighter  moods  of  gayety  and  cynical  levity, 

101 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

and  in  the  attributes  of  the  man  of  the  world,  he 
was  brilliantly  efficient,  acting  with  authoritative 
ease,  grace,  and  spontaneity.  In  this  revival  his 
Don  Felix,  if  slightly  more  mature  than  in  earlier 
years,  had  lost  none  of  its  animation  or  serio- 
comic force.  He  revelled  in  the  drunken  scene 
with  Don  Pedro  and  was  equally  dexterous  and 
amusing  in  the  quarrel  scenes  with  Violante. 
Whenever  he  was  upon  the  stage  he  carried  the 
action  along  to  the  grateful  accompaniment  of 
appreciative  laughter.  But  the  representation 
was  not  as  successful  as  some  of  its  predecessors. 
John  Gilbert's  study  of  the  foolish,  senile  Don 
Pedro  was  a  gem.  Harry  Beckett  was  very  funny 
as  the  servant  Lissardo,  and  W.  E.  Floyd  as  Col. 
Britton  made  a  hit  with  the  recital  of  his  love 
adventures;  but  Ada  Dyas  was  a  cold  and  unin- 
teresting Violante,  and  other  parts  were  in- 
effective in  the  hands  of  new  and  inexperienced 
actors.  But  it  was  significant  that  the  old-time 
actors  "played  up"  in  spite  of  the  handicap  to 
which  they  were  subjected. 

The  "Wild  Oats"  of  O'Keefe  (revived  in  1877) 
presents  fewer  difficulties  than  "The  Wonder" 
and  was  presented  with  a  happier  cast.  It  is  a 
less  artificial  piece,  rough  in  construction,  not  too 
probable,  but  full  of  incident,  bold  characteriza- 
tion, and  sturdy  humor.  O'Keefe  painted  with 

102 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

broad  sweeps  of  a  full  brush.  The  fact  that  his 
personages  are  types  which  long  ago  became  con- 
ventional and  are  now  obsolete  is  a  good  reason 
why  they  should  be  preserved  upon  the  stage  as 
a  matter  of  record.  They  are  amusing  if  not 
altogether  credible.  They,  seemed  plausible 
enough  as  they  were  presented  thirty-five  years 
ago  at  Wallack 's,  but  unluckily  we  no  longer 
have  any  John  Gilbert  or  Lester  Wallack,  not 
to  speak  of  supporting  casts.  The  part  of  Rover, 
the  magnanimous,  reckless  vagabond,  with  the 
soul  of  a  gentleman,  the  wits  of  an  adventurer, 
and  the  purse  of  a  pauper,  was  exactly  suited  to 
the  artistic  temperament  of  Lester  Wallack.  He 
delivered  the  innumerable  quotations  of  the 
stroller  with  infinite  gusto  and  travestied  the 
mannerisms  of  famous  actors,  including  some  of 
his  contemporaries,  with  much  mimetic  skill,  in- 
cidentally making  a  fine  display  of  his  own  ample 
histrionic  resources.  From  first  to  last  his  acting 
was  charged  with  mercurial  spirit,  but  beneath 
all  the  audacious  and  sparkling  levity  he  con- 
trived to  suggest  a  foundation  of  honor  and  man- 
liness, more  fully  revealed  in  his  brief  periods 
of  melancholy  reflection.  It  was  a  notable  piece 
of  work,  a  striking  instance  of  the  power  of 
artistic  and  imaginative  acting  to  vitalize  an 
artificial  and  illogical  character.  In  taking 

103 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

liberties  with  nature  the  old  dramatists  doubt- 
less knew  how  far  they  could  rely  upon  the  ca- 
pacities of  their  interpreters. 

If  O'Keefe  had  known  John  Gilbert,  he  could 
scarcely  have  conceived  a  character  more  to 
his  liking  than  that  of  George  Sir  Thunder, 
a  not  much  exaggerated  type  of  the  choleric, 
outspoken,  hard-swearing  post-captains  of  the 
Georgian  era  of  the  British  navy.  The  old  actor 
played  it  con  amore,  making  the  stage  rever- 
berate with  sound  and  fury.  His  wrath,  while 
it  lasted,  was  portentous;  his  assault  upon  the 
players  was  terrific.  Between  the  squalls  there 
were  spells  of  sunny,  genial  weather.  At  bottom 
Thunder  was  a  humorous  and  kindly  old  fellow, 
and  to  the  elemental  justice  and  generosity  in 
him  Gilbert  gave  delightful  expression.  There 
were  other  excellent  bits  of  acting  in  this  re- 
vival, among  which  the  John  Dory  of  Edward 
Arnott,  the  Ephraim  Smooth  of  Beckett,  and  the 
Jenny  Gammon  of  Erne  Germon  live  in  the  mem- 
ory. To-day  "Wild  Oats"  would  be  well-nigh 
impossible  upon  the  stage,  if  only  for  the  lack 
of  a  competent  Rover.  George  Giddens  could 
play  Thunder. 


104 


VIII 

MORE  PLAYS  AT  WALLACK'S 

THE  "Money"  of  Bulwer-Lytton,  if  not  an  old, 
is  at  least  an  artificial  comedy,  and  the  excellence 
of  its  performance  at  Wallack's  (1878)  gave  it 
a  dignity  which  entitles  it  to  mention  in  this 
place.  After  all,  notwithstanding  its  affectations, 
preachments,  and  conventionalities,  it  is  a  work 
of  rare  ability.  The  part  of  Alfred  Evelyn,  of 
course,  was  written  specially  for  Macready — who 
was  a  bit  of  a  prig  himself — and  it  is  not  difficult 
to  understand  how  Lytton,  in  trying  to  fit  him, 
invested  Evelyn  with  some  of  his  traits  and 
qualities.  Lester  Wallack's  Evelyn,  it  is  safe  to 
say,  did  not  in  the  least  resemble  Macready 's. 
He  was  not,  as  has  been  remarked,  a  very  ver- 
satile, though  a  highly  accomplished,  actor.  He 
interpreted  every  part  in  terms  of  his  own  per- 
sonality, and  in  his  Evelyn  there  was  more  of 
the  romantic  than  the  intellectual.  Whether  a 
man  of  the  type  he  presented  would  have  adopted 
the  course  prescribed  for  him  in  the  play  may 
well  be  doubted.  But  his  Evelyn  was  extremely 
interesting  and  attractive,  vigorous,  earnest, 

105 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

graceful,  and  brightly  intelligent.  He  was  a 
seductive  wooer  and  a  charming  companion,  and 
bore  himself  with  manly  dignity  in  his  supposed 
adversity.  His  sarcasm  was  fluent,  but  did  not 
always  carry  a  deadly  point. 

Picturesque  in  all  externals,  the  impersonation 
lacked  the  distinction  of  intellectual  power  and 
purpose.  But  it  was  more  human,  perhaps,  than 
the  author's  own  ideal  and  was  potent  in  the 
theater.  John  Gilbert,  long  an  admirable  repre- 
sentative of  Stout,  now  played  Sir  John  Vesey, 
whom  he  dignified  with  imposing  carriage  and 
manners,  without  slurring  the  baser  elements  in 
his  nature.  His  anxiety  in  the  gambling  scene 
was  comedy  of  the  most  finished  kind.  John 
Brougham  played  Stout  with  the  most  infectious 
humor.  Beckett,  from  the  artistic  point  of  view, 
was  a  long,  long  way  behind  Charles  Fisher  (one 
of  the  old-school  actors  whose  turn  will  come 
presently)  in  the  character  of  Graves  (of  which 
Ben  Webster  was  the  original  interpreter),  but 
he  was  so  excruciatingly  funny  in  the  scenes  with 
Lady  Franklin  that  he  defied  criticism.  Madame 
Ponisi  as  Lady  Franklin  was  inimitable.  She 
was  famous  in  it  for  years.  Rose  Coghlan,  then 
in  the  full  bloom  of  her  youthful  beauty,  played 
Clara  Douglas  with  rare  charm  and  much  wealth 
of  womanly  feeling,  and  H.  J.  Montague  played 

106 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

the  small  part  of  Dudley  Smooth  with  most  un- 
common tact  and  emphasis.  W.  E.  Floyd  was  a 
capital  Blount  and  the  minor  parts  were  in  per- 
fectly competent  hands.  As  for  the  mounting 
and  dressing,  they  were  always  good  at  Wai- 
lack's,  but  it  is  only  when  the  acting  is  poor  that 
these  decorative  details  command  consideration. 
In  September,  1878,  Mr.  Wallack  revived  "The 
School  for  Scandal,"  and  in  so  doing  unfor- 
tunately lent  the  weight  of  his  great  authority  to 
the  pernicious  practice  of  modernizing  old  plays, 
by  following  the  example  set  by  the  Bancrofts  at 
the  London  Haymarket.  Condensation,  of  course, 
is  excusable  and  often  inevitable.  Our  ancestors 
were  often  prolix.  But  alterations,  additions,  and 
modifications  of  the  scene  plan  are  unjustifiable. 
An  old  play  is  an  old  play  and  ought  to  be  given 
as  nearly  in  its  original  shape  as  possible,  for 
the  sake  of  historical  record,  and  as  an  illustra- 
tion of  the  changes  effected  by  time  in  construc- 
tion and  composition.  In  this  particular  instance 
it  need  not  be  pretended  that  much  damage  was 
done.  The  character  of  the  play  was  not  affected 
materially,  and  the  interpretation,  if  not  the 
best  ever  given  in  this  house,  was  thoroughly 
worthy  of  it.  But  it  may  be  noted  incidentally, 
as  an  evidence  that  modernization  does  not  neces- 
sarily mean  elevation  or  expurgation,  that  the 

107 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

few  gross  passages  in  the  text  were  carefully  re- 
tained. Mr.  Wallack,  whose  Charles  Surface  was 
accounted  among  his  most  successful  stage  crea- 
tions, abandoned  that  character  to  Charles 
Coghlan,  who  proved  the  best  representative  of 
it  known  to  modern  times.  His  triumph  in  it  was 
immediate  and  complete.  Less  hilarious  and 
boisterous  than  most  of  its  predecessors,  his 
impersonation  was  sufficiently  gay  and  debonair, 
but  its  dominating  expression  was  one  of  lux- 
urious and  improvident  indolence  and  cynical 
amusement.  The  earlier  scenes  he  played  in  a 
mood  of  partial  intoxication.  He  was  not  in  the 
least  degree  vulgarly  drunk,  but  seemed  en- 
veloped in  a  vinous  haze. 

His  rich  costume  was  carelessly  disarranged, 
his  whole  attitude  was  slothful,  but  observant, 
as  if  his  excesses  had  begun  to  pall  upon  him  and 
he  needed  some  new  fillip  to  give  zest  to  the 
follies  in  which  he  was  still  eager  to  participate. 
His  manners  were  perfect.  Even  in  the  frolic  of 
the  auction  scene  he  carried  himself  with  a 
natural  arid  distinctive  elegance.  A  manifest, 
wilful,  and  prodigal  scapegrace,  he  contrived,  by 
many  subtle  little  artistic  touches,  to  suggest  his 
possession  of  latent  merits  to  justify  the  praises 
of  Rowley.  In  his  interview  with  Sir  Peter  in 
Joseph's  library  he  was  particularly  happy;  his 

108 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

quizzical,  semi-serious  rebuke  of  the  guardian, 
who  had  turned  inquisitor,  his  laughing  but 
plainly  truthful  disavowal  of  the  intrigues  at- 
tributed to  him,  and  his  mischievous  delight  in 
the  episode  of  the  "little  milliner"  were  in  the 
best  vein  of  high  comedy,  and  in  his  mocking 
comments  upon  the  revelation  of  the  fallen 
screen,  while  gayly  remorseless  in  his  raillery  of 
Lady  Teazle  and  his  brother,  he  exhibited  a  rare 
and  delicate  artistic  perception  in  refraining 
from  untimely  mirth  at  the  expense  of  the  un- 
happy Sir  Peter.  Him  he  addressed  in  a  tone  of 
kindly  humor  not  unmixed  with  compassion. 
This  embodiment  was,  perhaps,  Coghlan's  most 
memorable  achievement  and  must  always  rank 
high  among  the  comic  masterpieces  of  the  theater. 
It  was  worthy  in  every  way  of  John  Gilbert's 
Sir  Peter,  which,  like  his  Sir  Anthony  Absolute, 
is  still  too  fresh  in  the  public  memory  to  require 
prolonged  notice  here.  It  was  less  courtly  than 
Chippendale's,  less  "peevish"  and  bitter  than 
Phelps's,  but  more  intensely  human,  perhaps, 
than  either,  while  equally  humorous.  In  this 
country,  for  many  years,  it  was  never  ap- 
proached, except  by  that  of  William  Warren,  and 
that  not  nearly.  It  was  rich  in  testy,  querulous 
humor,  in  dry  sarcasm,  in  generous  impulse,  and, 
as  a  bit  of  portraiture,  was  finished  with  the 

109 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

delicacy  of  a  cameo.  The  Joseph  of  Charles 
Barren,  an  uninspired  but  intelligent  and  me- 
chanically correct  actor,  much  admired  in  Boston, 
was  hard  and  melodramatic.  Madame  Ponisi  as 
Mrs.  Candor  was  a  model  of  superficial  frankness 
veiling  malevolent  suggestion.  W.  E.  Floyd  and 
E.  M.  Holland  were  respectively  excellent  as 
Backbite  and  Crabtree,  Harry  Beckett  an  amus- 
ing but  extravagant  Moses,  and  Eose  Coghlan 
a  most  bewitching  Lady  Teazle,  especially  in  the 
early  scenes  and  in  the  quarrel  with  Sir  Peter. 
As  a  whole  the  representation  was  admirable  in 
the  celerity  of  its  action,  in  proportion,  and  in 
atmosphere. 

A  subsequent  revival  of  "The  Eoad  to  Euin," 
inferior  in  some  respects  to  the  earlier  one,  was 
made  notable  by  the  Young  Dornton  of  Charles 
Coghlan.  This  was  a  trifle  wooden  and  laborious 
in  the  earlier  scenes,  as  if  the  actor  were  feeling 
his  way,  but  afterward  exhibited  all  the  virile 
energy  and  warm,  emotional  coloring  which  were 
so  markedly  absent  from  the  impersonation  of 
H.  J.  Montague.  He  created  enthusiasm  by  the 
breathless  impetuosity  of  his  appeal  to  Silky,  the 
fine  burst  of  rage  which  followed  its  refusal,  and 
the  despairing  levity  of  his  scene  with  the  Widow 
Warren,  where  he  had  every  assistance  from 
Madame  Ponisi.  A  little  later  Mr.  Wallack  put 

110 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

on  '  *  The  Jealous  Wife, ' '  a  comedy  of  the  younger 
Colman,  which  now  appears  to  have  fallen  en- 
tirely into  oblivion,  to  give  Charles  Coghlan  an 
opportunity  of  acting  Mr.  Oakley.  The  experi- 
ment was  only  partly  successful.  On  the  English 
stage  Oakley  was  represented  as  a  middle-aged 
man.  Phelps  made  of  him  a  sort  of  companion 
picture  to  Sir  Peter  Teazle,  acting  in  a  spirit  of 
broad  comedy.  Coghlan  presented  him  as  a 
young  man  and  tried  to  modernize  him,  acting 
with  studious  naturalness  and  restraint  until  the 
last  act,  which  he  interpreted  with  the  broadest 
emphasis.  The  consequence  was  that  he  not  only 
robbed  the  play  of  its  proper  atmosphere  and 
proportion,  but  also  of  most  of  its  somewhat 
primitive  humor.  He  made  the  climax  effective 
enough  when  he  came  to  it,  but  at  the  expense  of 
the  rest  of  the  representation,  which  was  in- 
disputably dull,  not  altogether  through  Colman 's 
fault.  Phelps  kept  his  audience  laughing  from 
first  to  last.  Eose  Coghlan  was  a  fascinating 
and  spirited  Mrs.  Oakley,  but  endowed  that 
difficult  lady  with  too  shrewish  a  disposition  and 
a  dash  of  malice  that  is  not  appropriate  to  her. 
She  really  loved  her  husband,  and  her  jealousy 
originated  solely  in  genuine  misconception. 

In  March,   1880,  Lester  Wallack,   after  many 
years'  interval,  reappeared  in  a  part  that  had 

111 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

been  one  of  his  youthful  successes,  Jack  Wilding 
in  Foote's  old  comedy,  "The  Liar."  The  piece 
is  not  very  precious,  but  it  provided  him  with 
some  brilliant  opportunities.  Physically  he  was 
far  too  mature  and  heavy  for  the  character  of 
the  gay  and  mendacious  young  student,  but  his 
art  enabled  him  to  maintain  the  illusion  of  youth 
by  vigor  and  grace  of  movement  and  an  inces- 
sant flow  of  animal  spirits.  He  rattled  through 
the  first  act  with  magnificent  vivacity,  uttering 
his  fabrications  with  a  glibness  and  apparent 
sincerity  calculated  to  deceive  even  the  elect. 
And  his  comic  perplexity  and  distress  in  the 
second  act,  when  his  lies,  like  chickens,  came 
home  to  roost,  were  delicious.  For  the  moment 
he  made  the  preposterous  farce  entirely  plausible. 
But  then  he  had  John  Gilbert,  whose  Old  Wild- 
ing was  another  perfect  example  of  peppery 
humor,  to  back  him,  and  Ada  Dyas,  whose  cold, 
polished,  sparkling,  but  utterly  passionless  style 
was  exactly  adapted  to  the  part  of  Miss 
Grantham.  There  need  be  no  lamentation  over 
the  disappearance  of  "The  Liar'*  from  the  stage, 
for  it  has  no  substantial  literary  or  dramatic 
value,  and  there  are  no  longer  any  actors  capable 
of  giving  to  any  of  these  three  characters  the 
artificial  brilliancy  without  which  they  would  ap- 
pear to  modern  eyes  unlifelike  and  conventional. 

112 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

The  inferiority  of  the  modern  actor,  untrained 
in  the  old  schooling,  was  strikingly  manifested  in 
the  production  of  "As  You  Like  It"  at  Wallack's 
in  October,  1880.  The  lovely  comedy  was  pre- 
sented in  sumptuous  fashion,  but  with  a  minimum 
of  poetic  illusion.  A  new  leading  man,  Osmund 
Tearle — an  English  actor  who  died  a  year  or  two 
ago  in  England,  where  he  enjoyed  a  fair  Shake- 
spearean reputation  in  the  provinces — was  the 
Jacques.  He  was,  in  1880,  by  no  means  a  bad 
performer  of  the  modern  school.  He  had  in- 
telligence, a  good  presence  and  voice,  but  neither 
dignity  nor  depth.  His  Jacques  was  Victorian, 
demonstrative,  and  shallow.  In  the  "  Seven 
Ages ' '  speech  he  won  the  applause  of  the  gallery 
by  ingenious  vocal  variations  and  elaborate 
mimetic  gesture,  which  might  have  passed  muster 
in  the  "Queen  Mab"  speech  of  Mercutio,  but 
were  abominably  inappropriate  in  the  case  of 
this  philosophical  and  misanthropic  dreamer 
among  the  deer  in  the  woods  of  Arden.  Another 
new  English  actor,  John  Pitt,  a  big,  manly  man, 
was  an  attractive  Orlando  to  look  at,  and  acted 
the  part  fluently,  vigorously,  and  with  mechanical 
accuracy,  but  without  the  least  glamor  of  ro- 
mantic spirit,  while  his  reading  was  hard  and 
monotonous.  He  was  as  much  out  of  his  proper 
element  as  a  swan  upon  a  turnpike  road.  William 

113 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Elton,  the  new  low  comedian  of  the  company — • 
who  was  to  do  much  admirable  work  afterward — 
was  one  of  the  many  clever  graduates  from  bur- 
lesque, and  interpreted  Touchstone  after  the  bur- 
lesque method.  He  provoked  plenty  of  the 
laughter  which  is  so  dear  to  the  box-office,  but 
vulgarized  the  part  hopelessly.  Eose  Coghlan's 
Rosalind — to  become  a  notable  impersonation 
in  later  years — had  brilliancy  and  charm,  glit- 
tered with  archness  and  spirit  in  masquerade, 
but  was  deficient  in  poetic  imagination  and 
nobility  and  tenderness  of  feminine  spirit.  The 
only  characters  to  satisfy  fully  the  Shakespearean 
conception  were  the  Adam  of  Mr.  Gilbert — 
thoroughly  emblematic  of  simple,  natural  dignity, 
stanch  loyalty,  and  pathetic  affection — and  the 
Banished  Duke  of  Harry  Edwards,  another  well- 
trained  actor — a  competent  embodiment  in  every 
way.  The  glory  was  already  beginning  to  depart 
from  Israel. 

This  melancholy  fact  received  additional  con- 
firmation in  the  revival  of  "She  Stoops  to  Con- 
quer" in  May,  1884,  when  the  low  comedy  of 
Tony  Lumpkin  was  converted  into  mere  buf- 
foonery by  Frank  Howson,  and  Louise  Moodie 
proved  completely  inadequate  to  the  part  of  Miss 
Hardcastle.  But  all  shortcomings — and  they 
were  many  and  painful — were  forgotten  in  the 

114 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

enjoyment  of  the  Charles  Marlow  of  Lester  Wai- 
lack,  and  the  Hardcastles  as  played  by  John 
Gilbert  and  Madame  Ponisi.  Wallack  could  no 
longer  look  the  part,  but  he  played  it  inimitably, 
with  the  choicest  mixture  of  cool,  elegant  effront- 
ery and  demoralized  bashfulness.  As  for  the 
Old  Hardcastle  of  John  Gilbert,  it  was  one  of 
those  creations  which,  once  seen,  live  for  ever  in 
the  memory.  I  can  see  him  now  as  he  sat  at  the 
table,  with  his  arm  thrown  protectingly  around 
the  flagon  which  he  was  determined  to  defend 
against  the  combined  assaults  of  his  two  incom- 
prehensible guests,  his  face  a  mirror  of  complex 
emotions,  amusement,  bewilderment,  and  a  rising 
indignation  checked  by  courtesy  and  hospitable 
impulse.  Madame  Ponisi  was  no  less  natural  or 
artistic  as  the  silly,  motherly,  quick-tempered, 
and  credulous  Mrs.  Hardcastle.  Truly  these  old 
players  were  artists  who  knew  their  business; 
and  wide  is  the  gulf  between  their  sure  and 
varied  artistry  and  the  accomplishment  of  modern 
mummers,  whose  one  specialty  is  in  the  mon- 
otonous repetition  of  themselves. 

These  old  comedy  revivals  were  the  brightest 
features  in  the  history  of  Wallack 's  during  the 
period  1874-1884.  By  them  the  prestige  of  the 
house  was  maintained,  and  it  was  in  them  that 
the  best  qualities  of  the  company  were  revealed. 

115 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

It  is  impossible  now  to  refer  particularly  to  the 
forty  or  fifty  modern  plays  produced  during  the 
same  time,  nor  would  it  be  highly  profitable. 
There  were,  of  course,  some  notable  as  well  as 
many  inconsiderable  representations.  Of  the 
former  a  few  may  be  recalled.  A  notably  fine 
production  of  " Caste"  was  given  in  1875,  when 
George  Honey,  once  a  famous  operatic  buffo, 
appeared  as  Eccles,  filling  him  with  a  wonderful 
brand  of  liquorish  humor.  A  more  unlovely  or 
more  truthful  study  of  a  sodden  British  pot- 
house ranting  radical  could  not  easily  be  imag- 
ined, but  it  was  extraordinarily  funny  and,  with 
all  its  broad  strokes,  a  finished  bit  of  artistry. 
His  grotesque  rage  at  the  refusal  of  his  daughter 
to  receive  the  alms  of  her  titled  mother-in-law 
was  as  fine  a  bit  of  eccentric  low  comedy  as  could 
be  desired,  and  his  harangue  to  the  sleeping  in- 
fant— when  he  stole  the  coral — was  a  gem.  H. 
J.  Montague  as  D'Alroy,  Charles  A.  Stevenson 
as  Hawtree,  Ada  Dyas  as  Esther,  Efiie  Germon 
as  Polly,  E.  M.  Holland  as  Sam,  and  Mme.  Ponisi 
as  the  Marchioness  were  all  happily  cast.  To 
make  fun  of  the  Robertsonian  comedy  is  easy. 
It  is  often  trivial,  conventional,  and  ultra- 
sentimental,  and' it  is  too  full  of  predestined  coin- 
cidence, but  in  most  of  its  details  and  character 
sketches  it  is  veracious  and  human. 

116 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Lester  Wallack  was  superb  in  Planche's 
comedietta  "The  Captain  of  the  Watch."  The 
manner  was  all.  He  carried  the  character  of 
the  gay,  gallant,  coxcombical  hero  with  the  most 
picturesque  effrontery.  It  was  worth  going  to 
the  theater  to  see  him  bow  himself  off  in  the  last 
act.  He  retired  backward,  almost  across  the 
whole  width  of  the  stage,  making  sweeping  bows 
to  every  member  of  the  cast  in  turn,  with  an  ap- 
propriate salutation  to  each.  The  difficult 
maneuver  was  performed  with  a  picturesque 
grace  and  elegant  assurance  which  were  inde- 
scribably effective. 

He  revealed  another  side  of  his  art  in  "John 
Garth,"  the  melodrama  which  John  Brougham 
made  out  of  the  novel  of  that  name.  In  this  he 
showed  his  power  in  the  portrayal  of  the  graver 
emotions.  Garth  is  a  strong,  generous  man  who, 
soured  by  misfortune  and  injustice,  has  become 
callous  and  misanthropical,  but  is  restored  to 
his  better  self  by  the  promptings  of  paternal 
affection  and  the  reawakening  of  his  natural  mag- 
nanimity. In  this  character  Wallack  exhibited 
morose  gravity,  virile  tenderness,  and  passionate 
rage  with  striking  effect;  and  he  also  displayed 
a  mastery  of  the  symbols  of  the  graver  emotions 
in  the  "All  for  Her"  of  Palgrave  Simpson  and 
Hermann  Merivale,  in  which  a  ruined  profligate, 

117 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

ennobled  by  hopeless  affection,  sacrifices  himself 
to  secure  the  happiness  of  the  loved  one,  after 
the  fashion  of  Sydney  Carton.  It  was  an  able 
and  a  moving  portrayal,  but  was  wanting  in  sin- 
cerity. His  emotional  display  was  a  very  clever 
and  artistic  counterfeit,  but  had  no  convincing 
ring.  It  was  good  plated  ware,  not  sterling 
metal.  There  was  no  vein  of  real  tragedy  in  him. 
He  was  first  and  last  a  comedian.  But  he  could 
embody  many  of  the  sterner  attributes  of  man- 
hood, such  as  energy,  promptitude,  anger,  cour- 
age, and  resolution.  A.  C.  Wheeler,  one  of  the 
best  known  dramatic  critics  of  his  time,  and 
Steele  MacKaye  wrote  a  piece  for  him  called 
"The  Twins,"  in  which  he  enacted  two  brothers, 
one  a  dreaming,  impractical  student,  who  sat 
among  his  books  while  his  wife  imperilled  fame 
and  fortune ;  the  other  a  keen,  bustling,  able  man 
of  the  world,  the  deus  ex  machina,  who  comes  to 
the  rescue,  straightens  all  tangles,  and  brings 
general  happiness  in  his  train.  He  played  his 
own  part  to  admiration,  throwing  the  diverse 
characters  into  strong  relief,  and  winning  a  per- 
sonal success,  but  the  play  was  a  failure,  partly 
because  Ada  Dyas,  who  did  not  like  her  part, 
that  of  the  heroine,  contented  herself  with  walk- 
ing through  it,  answering  and  giving  "cues," 
but  attempting  nothing  in  the  way  of  expression 

118 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

or  gesture.  The  wet  blanket  which  she  threw 
over  the  proceedings  effectually  quenched  what- 
ever dramatic  fire  her  associates  may  have  at- 
tempted to  kindle. 

In  modern  drama  he  was  seen  at  his  best  in 
such  parts  as  Henry  Beauclercq,  the  shrewd, 
polished,  and  resourceful  diplomat  in  "Diplo- 
macy"— in  which  he,  with  Fred  Eobinson  as 
Orloff,  H.  J.  Montague  as  Julian,  and  Eose 
Coghlan  as  Zicka,  constituted  a  remarkable  quar- 
tet; as  Hugh  Chalcote  in  "Ours,"  and  as  Pros- 
per Couramont  in  "A  Scrap  of  Paper,"  in  which 
his  portrayal  of  a  man  of  the  world,  cool,  im- 
perturbable, blandly  authoritative,  shrewd,  indo- 
lent, and  witty,  stirred  into  sudden  action  by  an 
emergency  of  his  own  creation  involving  the 
happiness  of  the  woman  he  loved,  must  always 
be  included  among  his  most  brilliant  achieve- 
ments. To  quote  but  one  incident.  There  is  not 
an  actor  upon  the  stage  to-day  who  could  ap- 
proach— let  alone  duplicate — him  in  the  treat- 
ment of  the  scene  where  he  is  challenged  to  fight 
by  a  frantic  young  lover.  His  placid  air  of 
amused  but  intensely  provocative  unconcern,  his 
half-humorous,  half-compassionate  "Poor  little 
boy!"  in  reply  to  a  furious  tirade,  his  careless 
deliberation  in  the  proposal  of  preposterous 
weapons,  his  whole  air  of  authority  and  genial 

119 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

magnanimity,  were  inimitable.  Sardou  himself 
could  not  have  wished  for  an  abler  interpreter 
of  one  of  the  best  scenes  in  one  of  his  cleverest 
-comedies.  With  this  memory  these  notes  on  the 
old  Wallack's  may  fittingly  close. 


120 


IX 


DALY'S  STOCK  COMPANY  IN  THE  SEVENTIES 

OF  the  two  other  prominent  stock  companies 
of  this  period,  Augustin  Daly's  and  A.  M. 
Palmer's,  precedence  must  be  allowed  to  the 
former.  Daly  was  a  remarkable  man  in  many 
ways,  the  creator  and  arbiter  of  his  own  for- 
tunes. In  the  variety  of  his  accomplishments,  in 
his  indefatigable  industry,  in  his  ambitions,  his 
independence,  his  pluck,  and  his  resourcefulness, 
he  stood  alone  among  contemporary  managers. 
He  was  a  student  with  good  literary  and  artistic 
intuitions,  wrote  (or  adapted)  a  great  many  of 
his  plays,  and  was  virtually  his  own  stage  man- 
ager. In  his  theater  he  was  a  despot.  Every- 
thing that  happened  between  the  box-office  and 
the  stage  door  was  subject  to  his  personal  super- 
vision. There  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  would 
have  done  much  more  really  good  work  than  he 
did  if  he  had  not  attempted  to  do  so  much.  As 
a  stage  director  he  was  brilliant,  adventurous, 
prodigal,  and  catholic,  but  his  knowledge  was  not 
universal  nor  his  judgment  always  sound.  The 

121 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

artistic  success  of  some  of  the  most  costly  and 
ambitious  of  his  productions  was  not  commen- 
surate with  the  reputation  of  some  of  his  players 
or  the  elaborateness  of  the  decorations.  There 
were  apt  to  be  very  feeble  brothers  and  sisters  in 
the  tail-end  of  his  casts,  and  not  infrequently  his 
leading  players  were  obvious  misfits  in  the  parts 
to  which  they  were  assigned.  He  ransacked  the 
curiosity  shops  of  Europe  for  antique  pieces 
which  contributed  greatly  to  the  splendor  of  his 
stage  interiors,  but  some  of  the  pictures  on  the 
walls  might  be  unconscionable  daubs. 

Similarly,  a  landscape  scene,  admirable  in  many 
respects,  might  be  ruined  by  splotches  of  im- 
possible color  or  by  the  introduction  of  horrible 
imitation  statuary.  So  it  came  to  pass  that  com- 
paratively few  of  the  fifty  or  more  representa- 
tions which  he  made  in  1874-84  were  completely 
satisfactory,  both  scenically  and  dramatically, 
however  brilliant  they  might  be  in  spots.  He 
never — except  possibly  in  two  or  three  of  the 
light  comedies  which  he  adapted  from  the  Ger- 
man— attained  to  the  all-round  high  standard  of 
performance  set  by  Wallack's  in  its  best  days. 
In  his  earlier  managerial  period  he  was  more 
than  once  on  the  verge  of  financial  ruin,  but  he 
found  a  substantial  backer  in  his  father-in-law, 
John  Duff,  and  thereafter  he  often  floated  on 

122 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

flood  tides  of  prosperity.  His  theaters — whether 
the  Fifth  Avenue  or  the  renovated  old  shanty, 
Wood's  Museum,  the  present  Daly's,  which  he 
occupied  in  1879 — were  never  without  potential 
attractions.  He  knew  how  to  cater  for  the  pub- 
lic. He  provided  for  them  an  atmosphere  of 
comfort  and  refinement,  many  popular  actors, 
including  some  of  sterling  worth,  diversified  pro- 
grammes, and,  whenever  opportunity  offered,  the 
most  enticing  displays  of  fashionable  millinery 
well  set  off  by  pretty  women. 

At  the  head  of  Daly's  histrionic  forces  in  1874 
stood  Charles  Fisher,  an  actor  of  trained  skill 
and  vast  experience.  Long  past  his  early  prime, 
he  was  still  in  full  possession  of  his  physical  and 
artistic  resources.  He  was  tall,  handsome,  dig- 
nified, with  the  precise,  bold,  free  execution  and 
courtly  grace  of  the  old  school  of  comedy.  He 
was  capable  of  sparkling  and  spontaneous  gayety 
— as  leading  man  at  Wallack's  in  earlier  days  he 
had  been  an  admirable  Charles  Surface — of  sly 
humor,  vigor,  robust  passion,  and  many  forms 
of  pathos,  but  not  of  tragic  emotion.  In  his 
acting  he  exhibited  many  of  the  artistic  traits  of 
Gilbert  and  Wallack,  but  with  less  distinction  and 
power.  George  Clarke,  even  then  a  veteran 
among  juveniles — he  preserved  his  youthful  figure 
to  the  last — was  another  versatile  and  well- 

123 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

trained  actor,  expert  in  all  the  tricks  of  his  trade, 
intelligent,  but  without  a  particle  of  inspiration. 
W.  Davidge,  a  racy  and  eccentric  personality, 
was  a  low  comedian  of  wide  range  and  infinite 
experience,  brimful  of  a  robust  humor  which 
could  be  dry,  saturnine,  unctuous,  or  Bacchic  at 
will.  Moreover,  he  had  a  considerable  command 
of  choler  and  pathos,  but  neither  in  visage  nor 
figure  was  he  adapted  to  the  principal  characters 
in  high  comedy.  He  could  play  Sir  Oliver  Sur- 
face, and  Eccles,  and  Dick  Deadeye  (in  "Pina- 
fore"). In  his  degree  he  was  a  rare  and  in- 
valuable performer.  Frank  Hardenberg  was  also 
a  skilled  and  versatile  player,  especially  strong  in 
all  lines  of  eccentric  melodrama. 

Mrs.  G.  H.  Gilbert,  an  old  actress  then,  lived 
to  be  loved  and  honored  at  a  much  later  date. 
She  began  her  theatrical  career  as  a  dancer, 
which  doubtless  explains  the  fine  poise  and  ele- 
gance of  movement  for  which  she  was  distin- 
guished to  the  very  end.  Her  manners  were 
notably  fine,  whether  in  the  perfect  simplicity  of 
the  best  modern  breeding  or  in  the  nicer  illustra- 
tion of  the  artificial  methods  of  the  older  comedy. 
Her  sense  of  humor,  whether  broad  or  refined, 
was  keen  and  true,  and  found  the  fullest  means 
of  expression  in  her  eloquent  facial  play  and  her 
fluent  and  appropriate  gesture.  In  all  the  at- 

124 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

tributes  of  simple  womanhood  she  could  be  very 
tender  and  sympathetic,  while  as  the  formidable 
stage  mother-in-law — a  type  of  which  our  modern 
civilization  ought  to  be  ashamed — she  was  un- 
surpassed. For  nearly  half  a  century  she  was 
a  public  favorite.  She  has  gone  and  left  the 
world  no  copy. 

At  Daly's  she  found  a  frequent  professional 
associate  in  James  or  " Jimmy"  Lewis,  a  quaint, 
dry,  chipper,  and  magnetic  little  comedian  who 
contributed  very  largely  to  the  merriment  of  his 
generation.  He  was  a  most  useful  player,  for 
although  his  mannerisms  were  so  many  and  ag- 
gressive that  disguise  with  him  was  virtually  im- 
possible, they  were  of  a  kind  that  harmonized 
well  with  many  widely  contrasted  characters,  and 
he  thus  suggested  a  versatility  which  he  did  not 
actually  possess.  In  almost  any  circumstances 
he  was  amusing,  and  even  when  most  grotesque 
his  impersonations  had  a  finish  and  consistency 
which  gave  them  artistic  value.  The  leading  lady 
of  the  company,  Fanny  Davenport,  daughter  of 
the  famous  E.  L.  Davenport,  was  only  inheritor 
in  part  of  her  father's  genius,  but  was  a  superb 
creature  physically,  in  form  and  feature  a  thing 
of  perfect  beauty.  In  later  years  she  won  some 
popular  renown  in  passionate  romantic  parts, 
but  in  these  salad  days  her  acting,  though  in- 

125 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

stinctively  intelligent  and  by  no  means  devoid 
of  feeling  or  forcefulness,  clearly  revealed  her 
inexperience.  Her  personal  charms  formed  no 
small  proportion  of  her  theatrical  assets.  Sara 
Jewett,  also  a  novice,  pleased  by  a  singularly  at- 
tractive, refined,  delicate,  and  sentimental  per- 
sonality. Ada  Dyas  has  been  spoken  of  already. 
Ada  Eehan  was  yet  to  come.  Other  members  of 
the  company  may  be  left  to  future  reference. 

As  in  the  case  of  Wallack's,  I  propose  to  take 
note  first  of  Daly's  achievements  in  the  higher 
comedy.  In  1874  he  produced  "The  School  for 
Scandal,'*  following — he  loved  to  be  up  to  date — 
the  Bancroft  model.  If,  like  Wallack,  he  did  not 
do  much  harm  by  this  departure  from  old 
standards,  he  approved  a  mischievous  precedent, 
marked  another  step  in  a  progressive  decadence, 
and  paved  the  way  for  more  futile  and  pernicious 
innovations  in  the  near  future.  He  gained  noth- 
ing but  the  opportunity  for  elaborate  decorations 
— which  have  wrought  more  evil,  perhaps,  to  the 
modern  theater  than  anything  else — of  which  he 
took  the  utmost  advantage.  The  representation 
— distinctly  inferior  to  that  at  Wallack's — was, 
nevertheless,  excellent.  Charles  Fisher  as  Sir 
Peter  was  a  good  second  to  Gilbert.  He  failed 
to  give  prominence  to  the  testiness  and  crabbed- 
ness  of  the  character;  he  was  a  trifle  too  urbane. 

126 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

But  lie  had  the  old  comedy  style  and  finish,  was 
capital  in  the  quarrel  and  wholly  admirable  in 
the  screen  scene,  exhibiting  delightful  senile  glee 
in  the  episode  of  the  " little  milliner,"  showing 
dignified  pathos  in  his  confidences  with  Joseph 
and  a  masterly  blend  of  indignation,  humiliation, 
suffering,  and  self-control  while  listening  to  the 
raillery  of  Charles.  These  qualities  can  only  be 
indicated;  it  is  impossible  now  to  expatiate  upon 
them. 

The  novel  and  most  striking  feature  of  the 
representation  was  the  Joseph  of  Louis  James, 
which  was  exceedingly  happy  in  its  combination 
of  a  modern  spirit  with  formal  style.  James 
Anderson — primarily  a  tragedian,  and  a  far  more 
artful  expert  in  the  technique  of  acting  than  Mr. 
James — was  as  careful  (in  the  Drury  Lane  re- 
vival of  which  mention  has  been  made)  to  em- 
phasize the  element  of  calculation  in  Joseph's 
hypocrisy  as  he  was  to  embellish  him  with  super- 
ficial plausibility  and  polish.  James  played  the 
character  more  in  the  spirit  of  a  roguish  and 
time-serving  egotist,  who,  finding  it  easy  to  veil 
his  moral  and  actual  delinquencies  behind  com- 
placent hypocrisies,  had  contracted  the  habit  of 
them  without  much  thought  of  the  consequences. 
He  was  not  a  deep,  designing  villain,  but  rather 
a  weak  and  shallow  rascal,  with  agreeable  man- 

127 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

ners,  whose  selfish  policy  of  present  expediency, 
very  successful  for  a  time,  finally  and  inevitably 
was  to  lead  to  his  complete  discomfiture.  It  was 
an  extremely  able  and  plausible  performance, 
with  an  air  of  frankness  and  unaffected  honesty 
about  it  that  supplied  some  warrant  for  Sir 
Peter's  confidence.  It  has  not  since  been  ex- 
celled or  equalled.  The  only  other  really  good 
performances  were  those  of  Crabtree  by  Frank 
Hardenberg,  a  bit  of  genuine  characterization, 
and  the  Mrs.  Candor  of  Mrs.  Gilbert,  admirable 
both  in  manner  and  delivery.  George  Clarke 
simply  romped  through  the  part  of  Charles, 
while  the  Lady  Teazle  of  Fanny  Davenport, 
though  a  respectable  first  attempt,  was  remark- 
able only  for  its  loveliness. 

"The  School  for  Scandal"  was  followed  by  a 
series  of  so-called  old  comedy  revivals.  The  first 
was  a  chopped  and  altered  version  of  Sheridan's 
"The  Critic,"  which  would  only  with  difficulty 
have  been  recognized  by  its  author.  Fanny 
Davenport  burlesqued  Tilburina  prettily  enough, 
and  Lewis  was  comical  in  what  was  left  of  Puff, 
as  he  was  in  everything,  and  may  have  satisfied 
theatergoers  who  had  never  had  the  good  for- 
tune to  see  Charles  Mathews  in  the  part,  but  the 
only  player  who  caught  the  true  spirit  of  the  ex- 
travaganza was  Davidge,  whose  "Whiskerandos 

128 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

was  "exquisite  fooling."  It  was  Davidge  again 
who  was  conspicuously  competent  —  among 
younger  performers  who  were  often  ill  at  ease 
in  what  were  to  them  strange  conditions — in  the 
part  of  Old  Hardy  in  a  modified  version  of 
Hannah  Cowley's  "The  Belle's  Stratagem,"  his 
robust  and  colorful  humor  exciting  much  merri- 
ment. Fanny  Davenport  evidently  had  a  good 
notion  of  the  character  of  Letitia  Hardy,  but  not 
the  art  to  embody  it.  The  earlier  scenes  she 
ruined  by  grotesque  exaggeration,  but  she  was 
a  bewitching  vision.  Louis  James  was  too  heavy 
for  Doricourt  in  the  opening  acts,  but  was  more 
nearly  satisfactory  as  the  aroused  and  jealous 
lover  at  the  close.  Mrs.  Gilbert  was  perfectly  at 
home  in  the  part  of  Mrs.  Eackett,  and  Lewis, 
though  intensely  modern,  was  very  funny  as  the 
irrepressibly  inquisitive  and  loquacious  Flutter. 
But  the  interpretation  was  a  patchwork  of  old  and 
new,  inharmonious  in  design  and  unequal  in  exe- 
cution. Only  the  costliness  of  the  framework  in 
which  it  was  set  made  it  seem  a  precious  thing. 
The  "Masks  and  Faces"  of  Charles  Reade  is 
not  yet  one  of  the  old  comedies,  but  is  written 
in  a  similar  vein,  and  may,  by  courtesy,  be 
reckoned  among  them.  Daly,  of  course,  revived 
it  in  order  to  exhibit  Fanny  Davenport  in  the 
showy  part  of  Peg  Woffington,  which  in  bygone 

129 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

days  was  coveted  by  every  capable  actress  who 
owned  a  pretty  face.  In  personal  fascination 
Miss  Davenport  was  the  equal,  doubtless,  of  Peg 
herself,  and  she  represented  her  very  charmingly, 
if  in  strictly  contemporary  fashion.  The  tone  of 
the  comedy  and  the  manners  of  the  period  she 
disregarded.  But  her  deficiencies  in  these  re- 
spects were  fully  atoned  for  by  the  Triplet  of 
Charles  Fisher,  which  was  no  whit  inferior  to 
that  of  Benjamin  Webster,  the  original  creator 
of  the  character.  The  latter,  indeed,  depicted 
with  exquisite  fidelity  the  mental  and  bodily 
sufferings  of  the  starving  poet,  but  failed  to  sug- 
gest the  buoyancy  of  spirit  which  enabled  him 
to  endure  them.  The  occasional  gleams  of  this 
sanguine  temperament  in  Fisher's  impersonation 
not  only  lightened  the  gloom  of  the  character,  but 
made  it  still  more  sympathetic.  It  was  a  won- 
derful bit  of  vital  portraiture,  which  conferred 
artistic  dignity  upon  the  entire  representation. 
In  January,  1875,  Mr.  Daly  put  on  a  badly 
mangled  version  of  "The  Merchant  of  Venice" 
in  four  tableaux,  the  rich  dressing  and  picturesque 
setting  making  small  amends  for  the  irreverent 
and  often  incapable  treatment  of  the  text.  The 
representation,  although  much  lauded  at  the  time, 
would  scarcely  be  worthy  of  record  here  but  for 
the  appearance  of  E.  L.  Davenport  as  Shylock. 

130 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

He  was  one  of  the  ablest,  best  instructed,  and 
most  versatile  actors  of  his  time,  bringing  to  his 
characterizations  a  noble  presence,  an  intellectual 
and  plastic  countenance,  a  clear  and  trumpet- 
like  enunciation,  and  glowing  dramatic  fire.  He 
surpassed  Edwin  Booth  in  range,  though  inferior 
to  him  in  subtlety  and  electrical  tragic  inspira- 
tion. His  Jew  was  a  forceful  and  consistent 
study,  masterful,  keen,  with  a  note  of  menace  in 
its  sarcastic  self-control.  He  was  intense  rather 
than  tempestuous,  and  tore  no  passion  to  tatters. 
His  first  encounter  with  Antonio  was  marked  by 
deep  craft  underlying  suave  cynicism.  In  the 
street  scene — after  the  loss  of  his  jewels  and  the 
flight  of  his  daughter — the  agonies  of  wounded 
avarice  were  portrayed  with  thrilling  and  realistic 
power.  The  references  to  his  fugitive  child  sug- 
gested bitter  revengeful  rage  rather  than  parental 
pathos.  The  concentrated,  cool,  and  deadly  pur- 
pose of  his  acting  in  the  court  scene  was  ap- 
palling, and  his  final  collapse  a  tragic  picture  of 
blank  and  irremediable  despair.  The  Portia  of 
Carlotta  Leclercq  and  the  Bassanio  of  Louis 
James  were  both  creditable  efforts,  but  the  his- 
trionic quality  of  the  general  support  was  worse 
than  indifferent. 

Davenport  was  again  the  dominating  figure  in 
a  revival  of  "As  You  Like  It"  at  Daly's  in  1876, 

131 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

but  in  this  case  was  not  the  only  competent 
player.  Of  all  the  interpretations  of  Jacques  I 
can  recall  his  was  the  best  in  its  philosophic  pose 
and  carriage,  in  reflective  or  caustic  humor  and 
oratorical  skill.  It  is  a  pity  that  the  phonograph 
did  not  then  exist  to  keep  a  permanent  record  of 
his  recitation  of  the  " Seven  Ages"  soliloquy  for 
the  instruction  and  profit  of  future  players. 
There  was  not  in  it  the  slightest  suggestion  of 
studied  vocal  trick  or  calculated  gesture.  He 
uttered  the  lines  as  if,  lost  in  revery,  he  were 
unconsciously  speaking  aloud  the  description  of 
the  successive  pictures  as  they  formed  themselves 
in  his  mind.  There  was  no  minute  and  labored 
mimicry — no  attempted  realization  of  the  sigh- 
ing lover,  the  sudden  and  quick  soldier,  the 
round-bellied  justice,  or  the  lean  and  slippered 
pantaloon — but  only  just  enough  of  change  in 
facial  expression  and  vocal  tone  to  denote  the 
speaker's  introspective  appreciation  of  the  ideals 
he  was  contemplating.  Delicate  as  was  the 
method,  the  dramatic  effect  was  extraordinary. 
Mr.  Davenport  was  equally  successful,  if  in  a 
very  different  way,  in  the  bantering  encounter 
with  Orlando.  His  whole  impersonation  was  a 
notable  instance  of  executive  skill  directed  by 
artistic  instinct.  The  Touchstone  of  Davidge 
was  another  excellent  performance,  in  the  true 

132 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Shakespearean  vein,  full  of  rich  and  quaint 
humor  and  aptly  illustrative  resource.  Law- 
rence Barrett  was  a  virile  and  amatory,  if  not 
very  romantic,  Orlando,  and  D.  H.  Harkins  an 
efficient  Banished  Duke,  while  the  minor  per- 
sonages were  inoffensive.  Fanny  Davenport  was 
a  lovely  Eosalind  to  the  eye,  was  spirited,  arch, 
gallant,  and  coquettish,  but  the  poetic  side  of  the 
character  eluded  her.  She  was  a  modern  young 
woman  having  "a  good  time"  in  medieval  mas- 
querade, and  this  was  true  also  a  year  later  when 
the  comedy  was  revived  to  introduce  Charles 
Coghlan  as  Orlando,  which  he  played  admirably. 


133 


ADELAIDE  NEILSON  acted  Juliet  in  a  revival  of 
"Borneo  and  Juliet"  at  Daly's  in  1877,  and,  of 
course,  drew  the  town.  She  had  long  been  famous 
in  the  character,  with  which  her  fame  is  per- 
haps now  most  closely  associated.  She  was 
ravi  shingly  pretty  and  she  had  a  measure  of 
dramatic  genius,  but  not  of  the  high,  inventive, 
intellectual  type.  Her  natural  intelligence  was 
ample,  her  artistic  equipage  sufficient,  but  not 
remarkable;  she  could  be  arch,  tender,  pathetic, 
and  fervently  affectionate,  and  she  could  strike 
a  thrilling  note  of  emotional  passion.  All  her 
gifts  and  accomplishments  were  exhibited  in  her 
Juliet,  which  was  in  full  ripeness  at  Daly's, 
where  she  had  the  advantage  of  an  ardent,  virile, 
and  passionate  Borneo  in  Eben  Plympton.  Her 
balcony  scene — less  dainty,  poetic,  and  ethereal 
than  Modjeska's  or  Stella  Colas 's — was  fascinat- 
ing and  lovely  in  its  manifestation  of  youthful 
faith  and  ardor  and  rapturous  happiness,  mingled 
with  maidenly  timidity;  and  in  the  potion  scene 
her  physical  vigor  enabled  her  to  give  thrilling 

134 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

expression  to  a  paroxysm  of  hysterical  horror, 
with  very  little  suggestion — there  was  a  trace — 
of  rant.  She  will  always  hold  a  place,  if  not  the 
first,  among  the  great  Juliets.  And  on  this  oc- 
casion she  was,  on  the  whole,  well  supported. 
Charles  Fisher's  Mercutio  was  gay  and  buoyant 
in  spirit  and  brilliant  in  technique.  Mrs.  Gilbert 
was  an  excellent  Nurse,  Crisp  a  fiery  Tybalt,  and 
Hardenberg  a  capable  Friar. 

In  a  revival  of  "Twelfth  Night"  Miss  Neilson 
as  Viola  was  less  satisfactory  to  a  critical  taste. 
The  more  delicate,  imaginative,  and  romantic 
side  of  the  character  escaped  her.  She  was  too 
buxom,  gay,  and  debonair,  reflecting  but  rarely 
the  tender  melancholy  of  an  apparently  hopeless 
love  and  anxiety  for  the  loss  of  a  brother.  But 
the  spell  of  her  physical  beauty,  her  archness  and 
vivacity,  was  always  potent  with  her  audience. 
Charles  Fisher's  Malvolio,  a  finely  finished  bit 
of  eccentric  comedy,  only  lacked  a  touch  of 
quixotic  pride  and  gravity  to  perfect  it.  The 
Toby  Belch  of  Davidge  was  rich  in  liquorish 
humor,  better  than  any  ever  seen  here,  perhaps, 
with  the  single  exception  of  poor  Wenman's. 
Plympton  was  a  capital  Sebastian,  and  the  young 
John  Drew  a  promising  Sir  Andrew. 

This  must  be  accounted  among  the  most  worthy 
of  Mr.  Daly's  old  comedy  revivals,  as  it  was  for 

135 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

some  time  the  last.  Misfortune  overtook  him, 
and  during  1878  he  was  out  of  the  New  York 
field.  When  he  returned  to  the  city  it  was  to 
open  the  renovated  Broadway  Theater  (Wood's 
Museum)  under  the  name  of  Daly's,  with  a  com- 
pany which  was  to  become  famous  in  the  lighter 
forms  of  social  drama,  but  was  ill-adapted  to  the 
interpretation  of  artificial  literary  comedy  or 
imaginative  poetic  plays.  But  this  fact  did  not 
prevent  Mr.  Daly  from  making  occasional  in- 
cursions into  old  comedy  in  his  own  arbitrary 
fashion.  In  1882  he  selected  Colly  Gibber's  "She 
Would  and  She  Wouldn't" — no  very  precious 
thing,  to  be  sure — cut  and  changed  it  remorse- 
lessly, partly  in  the  interests  of  propriety,  partly 
to  bring  it  within  the  capacity  of  his  company, 
but  chiefly  to  give  his  new  leading  lady,  Ada 
Eehan,  then  in  her  earliest  bloom  (but  not  the 
actress  she  afterward  became),  an  opportunity 
of  displaying  her  piquant  charm,  mercurial 
spirits,  and  sparkling  humor.  She  frolicked 
through  the  part  of  the  disguised  Hippolyta  with 
infinite  vivacity  and  pretty  audacity,  making  a 
fascinating  cavalier.  But  as  a  bit  of  old  comedy 
her  performance  was  utterly  insignificant.  And 
of  the  supporting  company  only  old  Charles 
Fisher,  as  the  obstinate,  fussy,  and  gullible  Don 
Manuel,  seemed  to  be  in  his  proper  element. 

136 


<  Sr1 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

A  little  later  Mr.  Daly  offered  his  own  adapta- 
tion of  Garrick's  expurgated  edition  of  Wycher- 
ley's  "The  Country  Wife,"  which,  of  course,  was 
valueless  as  an  example  of  dramatic  construction, 
style,  manners,  or  anything  else.  It  was  not  even 
a  reflection  of  the  original  work,  which  in  some 
respects  was  fortunate.  Ada  Eehan  did  not  in 
the  least  resemble  the  true  Peggy  Thrift,  for 
whom  she  substituted,  with  amusing  effect,  her 
own  attractive  self.  Once  more  Mr.  Fisher,  as 
Moody,  was  the  one  player  in  the  cast  who  knew 
his  business.  Mr.  Daly's  company  was  no  less 
unhappy  in  the  extracts  which  he  provided  for 
them  from  "The  Eecruiting  Sergeant"  of 
Farquhar,  which  had  not  been  essayed  in  this 
country  for  fifty  years.  The  newspaper  praise  be- 
stowed upon  some  of  these  misrepresentations 
was  astounding. 

The  simple  truth  is  that  Augustin  Daly's  repu- 
tation as  an  enlightened  supporter  of  the  higher 
drama,  an  elevator  of  the  stage,  was  largely 
fictitious.  He  had  artistic  instincts  and  ambi- 
tions, but  not  the  knowledge,  the  persistence,  or 
the  material  to  bring  his  more  serious  endeavors 
to  full  fruition.  But  for  contemporaneous  plays 
of  all  kinds  he  had  a  much  sounder  intellectual 
and  managerial  equipment.  It  was  in  this  de- 
partment that  he  often  achieved  solid  attainment 

137 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

and  prosperity.  But  it  is  not  necessary  to  dwell 
long,  or  particularly,  upon  this  phase  of  his 
career.  The  plays  which  filled  his  theater  and 
his  treasury — many  of  them  clever,  bright,  amus- 
ing, or  emotionally  exciting  and  sometimes  most 
effectively  performed — were  of  a  common  type 
and  purely  ephemeral.  Few  were  of  any  notable 
literary  or  dramatic  merit  or  are  now  remem- 
bered even  by  name.  Such  pieces  as  "The 
Woman  of  the  Day,"  "The  Big  Bonanza,"  "Our 
Boys,"  "Pique"  (in  which  Fanny  Davenport 
made  a  great  personal  hit),  "Needles  and  Pins," 
"The  Passing  Regiment,"  "Dollars  and  Sense," 
and  "Love  on  Crutches,"  all  belonged  to  the 
same  family.  They  were  excellent  entertainment, 
lightly  illustrative  of  the  follies  of  the  day,  were 
luxuriously  dressed,  and  were  admirably  suited  to 
the  personal  and  histrionic  qualities  of  the  com- 
pany. The  selection  of  them  from  the  com- 
mercial point  of  view  was  eminently  sagacious, 
and  the  representations  of  them,  in  their  way, 
completely  satisfactory. 

Neater  or  more  exhilarating  light  comedy  work 
than  was  furnished  by  Charles  Fisher,  Mrs.  G. 
H.  Gilbert,  Ada  Rehan,  John  Drew,  James  Lewis, 
Frank  Hardenberg,  Fanny  Morant,  George 
Parkes,  Virginia  Dreher,  Charles  Leclercq,  and 
others,  could  not  reasonably  be  asked.  And  much 

138 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

of  the  acting,  in  its  delicacy  and  point,  was  of 
high  artistic  quality.  But  the  prevailing  spirit  in 
all  was  one  of  frivol.  The  promise  of  serious 
social  satire  in  "Our  First  Families"  and 
"Americans  Abroad"  was  lamentably  unfulfilled, 
legitimate  dramatic  themes  being  ruined  by  gro- 
tesque extravagance.  Fanny  Davenport,  rashly 
adventuring  (with  Daly's  consent)  upon  the  pre- 
serves of  Sarah  Bernhardt,  made  a  respectable 
failure  as  the  tragic  old  grandmother  in  the 
pseudo-classic  "Vesta,"  and  Ada  Eehan,  chal- 
lenging comparison  with  Clara  Morris,  was  sadly 
ineffectual  in  the  morbid  emotionalism  of 
"Odette."  "The  Moorcroft"  of  Bronson  How- 
ard, the  "Through  the  Dark"  of  Steele  MacKaye, 
"Serge  Panine,"  the  "Mankind"  of  Merritt  and 
Conquest,  were  melodramas  of  varying  degrees 
in  the  second  rate.  "The  American,"  a  Daly 
adaptation  of  Dumas 's  "L'Etrangere,"  was  a 
piece  of  stronger  dramatic  caliber,  and  is  memor- 
able for  the  masterly  performance  in  it  by 
Charles  Coghlan  of  the  abominable  Duke  de  Sept- 
monts — a  microscopic  study  of  cold,  smooth, 
steely  villany — and  the  piquant  and  dangerous 
adventuress  of  Jeffreys  Lewis.  A  notable  suc- 
cess was  won  also  by  "The  Squire,"  Pinero's 
dramatization  from  Hardy's  "Far  from  the  Mad- 
ding Crowd,"  in  which  Ada  Eehan  played  with 

139 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

much  charm  and  passion,  although  she  did  not  in 
any  way  embody  Hardy's  heroine.  Mr.  Daly 
showed  commendable  enterprise  also  in  his  pro- 
duction of  Pinero's  " Lords  and  Commons,"  for 
which  he  prepared  a  very  strong  cast,  but  the  play 
proved  a  disappointment,  and  most  of  the  actors 
unfortunate  misfits. 

The  Union  Square  Theater,  under  the  manage- 
ment of  Sheridan  Shook  and  A.  M.  Palmer, 
played  a  very  prominent  part  in  New  York 
theatrical  history  in  1874-84.  Shook  was  the 
capitalist  and  Palmer  the  director.  The  latter 
was  a  man  of  considerable  cultivation,  suave, 
shrewd,  worldly,  somewhat  hesitant  and  timid  in 
judgment,  but  with  first-rate  executive  ability 
and  a  remarkable  faculty  of  finding  means  to 
serve  his  ends.  He  selected  his  actors  with  much 
discrimination,  knowing  what  he  wanted  from 
them,  but  in  the  matter  of  the  choice  of  plays  and 
the  preparation  of  them  he  trusted  much  in  the 
acumen  of  his  right-hand  man  and  familiar,  A. 
B.  Cazauran,  a  Bohemian  journalist  and  linguist 
of  wide  and  curious  learning,  great  practical 
ability,  and  cosmopolitan  experience.  Profoundly 
versed  in  theatrical  literature  and  detail,  he  was 
invaluable  not  only  as  reader,  translator,  adapter, 
or  supervising  stage-manager,  but  as  general 
agent,  mentor,  and  guide.  He  was  an  ideal  fac- 

140 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

totum  and,  for  a  variety  of  reasons  with  which 
we  need  not  now  concern  ourselves,  he  was  per- 
fectly willing  to  work  in  the  background,  so  that 
comparatively  few  persons  knew  how  much  the 
theater,  and  Mr.  Palmer,  owed  to  his  brains. 
He  not  only  virtually  selected  many  of  the  most 
remunerative  plays,  but  put  the  final  polish  on 
them.  So  much  is  due  to  the  memory  of  an  old 
acquaintance  who  had  his  weaknesses  and  paid 
for  them  pretty  dearly. 

In  his  day  the  Union  Square  company  was  the 
best  in  the  country,  and  probably  in  the  world 
for  its  own  particular  purpose,  but  it  was  not 
an  ideal  stock  organization,  for  the  simple  reason 
that  its  capacity  was  strictly  limited  to  melo- 
drama, either  of  the  sensational  or  social  emo- 
tional variety.  It  was  not  qualified  to  engage 
in  the  higher  literary  comedy,  in  imaginative 
romance  or  tragedy,  and  Mr.  Palmer,  wise  in 
his  generation,  made  no  perilous  excursions  in 
those  directions.  He  was  content  to  do  well  what 
he  set  out  to  do,  and  by  adhering  steadily  to  this 
policy  he  reaped  a  rich  reward.  All  his  repre- 
sentations were  distinguished  by  vigor  and  vital- 
ity, and  that  cooperative  smoothness  and  propor- 
tion which  can  only  be  attained  by  actors  long 
accustomed  to  each  other's  methods  and  charac- 
teristics. 

141 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Among  the  chief  performers,  who  figured 
largely  in  his  many  successes,  were  Charles  R. 
Thorne,  Jr.,  a  somewhat  stiff  but  intelligent  and 
forceful  actor,  whose  stalwart  form  lent  veri- 
similitude to  all  virile  parts;  Fred  C.  Robinson, 
a  sterling  and  versatile  player,  who  got  his 
schooling  with  Phelps  at  Sadler's  Wells;  McKee 
Rankin,  then  a  model  of  slim  muscular  vigor  and 
excellent  in  all  forms  of  melodrama;  J.  H.  Stod- 
dart,  an  eccentric  comedian  of  rare  ability,  who 
shone  in  fierce  passion  as  well  as  in  broad  humor 
and  simple  pathos;  Charles  Coghlan;  James 
O'Neil;  John  Parselle,  one  of  the  best  of  old 
men;  Stuart  Robson,  who  was  not  much  of  an 
actor,  but  had  a  quaint  and  comic  personality 
which  brought  him  great  popularity ;  Sara  Jewett, 
a  refined  and  pleasing  actress;  Fanny  Morant, 
preeminent  in  the  line  of  aristocratic  haughti- 
ness; Clara  Morris,  of  whom  more  hereafter; 
Kate  Claxton,  Kitty  Blanchard,  and  others  of 
lesser  degree.  The  plays  in  which  they  appeared 
were,  almost  without  exception,  good  of  their 
kind,  but,  as  few  of  them  had  any  permanent 
literary  or  dramatic  value,  it  will  not  be  neces- 
sary to  describe  them  in  detail.  Among  the  most 
successful  melodramas  were  " The  Two  Orphans," 
"Rose  Michel,"  "Ferreol,"  "A  Celebrated  Case" 
(which  the  acting  of  Charles  Coghlan  greatly  dig- 

142 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

nified),  and  "The  Danicheffs,"  all  of  French 
origin;  "The  Lights  of  London, "  which  was 
English,  and  "Two  Men  of  Sandy  Bar"  and 
"The  False  Friend,"  which  were  native.  This 
last  was  by  Edgar  Fawcett,  and  was  founded 
upon  the  notorious  Tichborne  case,  of  which  all 
the  civilized  world  had  been  talking.  This  was 
a  good  deal  stranger  than  most  fiction,  and 
might  be  quoted  in  justification  of  much  poetic 
license  in  a  scheme  of  mistaken  identity,  but  Mr. 
Fawcett 's  story  was  so  wildly  extravagant  that 
it  needed  all  the  cleverness  of  the  company  to 
give  it  even  the  semblance  of  plausibility.  But 
the  piece  was  popular  for  a  time.  In  "Two  Men 
of  Sandy  Bar,"  Bret  Harte  quite  failed  to  get 
the  charm  of  his  short  stories  across  the  foot- 
lights. 

The  best  of  these  was  "The  Two  Orphans," 
which,  in  the  plentitude  of  its  incident,  rapidity 
and  sustained  interest  of  action,  and  succession 
of  plausible  climaxes,  is  a  remarkable  specimen 
of  constructive  skill  in  romantic  melodrama.  And 
it  was  perfectly  acted.  Charles  Thorne  as  the 
gallant  hero,  McKee  Eankin  as  the  ferocious 
Jacques,  Marie  Wilkins  as  the  monstrous  Madame 
Frochard,  F.  F.  Mackay  as  the  wretched  and 
enamored  cripple,  John  Parselle  and  Fanny 
Morant  as  the  Compte  and  Comptess  de  Linieres, 

143 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

and  Kate  Claxton  as  the  blind  orphan,  all  gave 
most  notable  performances.  Such  a  representa- 
tion would  have  been  worth  while  even  if  the  play 
had  been  a  much  poorer  dramatic  thing  than  it 
was.  It  was  a  triumph  of  artistic  management, 
but  a  triumph  that  was,  in  a  large  degree,  acci- 
dental. Hart  Jackson,  who  translated  and  owned 
the  piece,  hawked  it  about  New  York  for  months 
in  the  vain  effort  to  find  a  manager  who  would 
produce  it.  A.  M.  Palmer  would  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it,  although  he  nibbled  at  it  for  a  time. 
It  was  Agnes  Booth,  widow  of  J.  B.  Booth, 
who  was  first  to  realize  its  theatrical  value.  In 
an  idle  hour  she  found  the  manuscript  lying  in 
a  desk  in  the  office  of  Jarrett  &  Palmer,  then 
lessees  of  Booth's  Theater.  She  read  it,  was 
immensely  impressed — she  knew  good  melodrama 
when  she  saw  it — and  strongly  advised  Jarrett 
&  Palmer  to  secure  possession  of  it.  While  they 
were  debating  the  matter,  A.  M.  Palmer  got  wind 
of  the  negotiations  and  Agnes  Booth's  en- 
thusiasm, and  sending  for  Jackson,  who  was  des- 
perately hard  up,  bought  the  play  from  him  for 
a  ridiculously  small  sum — $700,  I  believe.  Even 
when  the  play  was  in  rehearsal  he  did  not  fully 
realize  what  a  prize  he  had  obtained.  On  the 
first  night  the  performance  dragged — partly 
owing  to  the  elaborate  scenery — and  it  was  long 

144 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

after  midnight  when  the  final  curtain  fell.  By 
that  time  the  audience  had  grown  thin  and  some- 
what apathetic,  and  Palmer,  always  easily  dis- 
couraged, was  inclined  to  believe  that  he  had  met 
with  failure.  On  the  succeeding  day  he  began 
preparations  for  putting  a  new  play  in  rehearsal. 
These  were  quickly  ended  by  the  ensuing  rush 
of  the  public. 


145 


XI 


THE  UNION  SQUARE  THEATER,  CLARA 
MORRIS  AND  TOMMASO  SALVINI 

OF  plays  somewhat  distinct  in  quality  from 
melodrama,  "The  Banker's  Daughter"  of  Bron- 
son  Howard  deserves  special  mention  as  a  play 
by  an  American  author,  dealing  with  American 
characters  in  a  somewhat  Gallic  style,  but  with- 
out any  trace  of  the  essentially  immoral  and  mor- 
bid sentimentality  of  the  French  social  plays  of 
the  period.  The  tale  of  a  young  girl  who  marries 
a  rich  and  honorable  man  while  loving  another, 
in  order  to  save  her  father  from  ruin,  was  not 
very  fresh,  and  the  treatment  of  it  was  somewhat 
conventional  and  melodramatic,  but  the  piece 
was  well  written,  the  characterization  deft,  and 
the  incidents  theatrically  effective.  It  marked  a 
long  upward  step  in  Bronson  Howard's  dramatic 
career.  Charles  Thome  was  admirable  as  the 
magnanimous  husband  and  Sara  Jewett  pleas- 
ingly sympathetic  as  the  distressed  young  wife. 
W.  G.  Wills 's  "Olivia"  is  too  well  known  to  need 
present  comment.  On  this  occasion  Fanny  Daven- 
port was  the  Olivia,  a  part  which  she  acted 

146 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

prettily,  but  in  entirely  modern  fashion,  exciting 
doubts  as  to  whether  she  had  ever  read  "The 
Vicar  of  Wakefield."  The  only  Goldsmith  flavor 
in  the  representation  resided  in  the  Vicar  of 
Charles  Fisher. 

The  production  of  Sardou's  "  Daniel  Bochat" 
was  one  of  the  most  memorable  incidents  in  the 
history  of  this  theater.  The  play,  in  literary 
quality,  in  sincerity  of  purpose,  in  ingenuity  of 
construction,  and  psychological  analysis,  was  one 
of  the  author's  finest  achievements.  Discussion 
of  its  philosophy  here  is  as  impracticable  as  it 
would  be  unprofitable.  Briefly  it  is  a  study  of 
the  inevitable  and  —  as  he  saw  it  —  the  irre- 
concilable spiritual  conflict  between  a  husband 
and  wife  devotedly  attached  to  each  other,  the 
former  a  convinced  atheist,  the  latter  a  saintly 
religious  devotee.  In  the  final  test  it  is  the 
woman  of  ecstatic  faith  who  proves  the  stanchest. 
The  brilliant  and  sincere  free-thinker,  in  the  ex- 
tremity of  his  passion,  is  willing  to  sacrifice  his 
principles  to  insure  the  happiness  of  both,  but 
the  woman,  realizing  the  motive  of  the  conces- 
sion, refuses  a  compromise  which  is  repugnant 
to  her  creed.  This  was  a  play  of  absorbing  in- 
terest and  dramatic  power  and  it  was  mag- 
nificently played.  The  character  of  the  devotee 
was  exactly  suited  to  the  style  and  temperament 

147 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

of  Sara  Jewett,  while  Thorne — if  he  failed  to 
express  fully  the  intellectual  brilliancy  of  Rochat 
— portrayed  his  passion  and  his  sufferings  with 
most  striking  power.  A  complete  contrast  to 
"Daniel  Rochat"  was  afforded  by  "The 
Bantzaus"  (Erckmann-Chatrian),  a  pretty, 
idyllic  story  of  the  reconciliation  effected  be- 
tween two  hostile  old  brothers  by  their  children, 
who,  in  spite  of  paternal  prohibitions,  have 
fallen  in  love.  John  Parselle  and  J.  H.  Stoddart 
carried  off  the  histrionic  honors  by  their  perfect 
embodiments  of  the  contrasted  brothers.  "Far 
from  the  Madding  Crowd,"  an  adaptation  by  A. 
R.  Cazauran,  was  chiefly  notable  for  the  complete 
failure  of  Clara  Morris  to  identify  herself  with 
the  character  of  Hardy's  heroine,  Bathsheba 
Everdene,  a  conception  which  lay  far  beyond  the 
scope  of  her  dramatic  horizon.  But,  of  course, 
she  filled  the  passionate  scenes  with  vivid  emo- 
tion. 

Miss  Morris  achieved  some  signal  triumphs  at 
the  Union  Square,  but  before  considering  these 
brief  reference  must  be  made  to  several  of  the 
popular  French  emotional  plays  in  which  she 
bore  no  part.  One  of  these,  "Led  Astray,"  es- 
sentially immoral  in  its  sentimental  gloss  of  illicit 
passion,  drew  crowded  houses  for  months,  a  re- 
sult chiefly  due  to  the  sentimental  appeal  of  the 

148 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

impassioned  acting  of  Rose  Eytinge,  an  actress 
whose  voluptuous  charm  was  reinforced  by  gen- 
uine dramatic  power  and  artistic  skill.  "The 
Mother's  Secret,"  a  version  of  Sardou's  insin- 
cere, morbid,  and  incredible  but  theatrically 
adroit  "Seraphine,"  was  signalized  by  the  grip- 
ping acting  of  Charles  Coghlan  as  Admiral  Le 
Pont,  one  of  those  keen,  polished,  inflexible  char- 
acters upon  which  the  intellectual  method  of  the 
actor  conferred  especial  distinction.  Mr.  Coghlan 
was  equally  impressive  and  skilful  as  the  pitiless, 
unscrupulous,  and  wholly  impossible  Montjoye 
in  "The  Man  of  Success,"  his  authoritative  and 
tactful  style  helping  to  veil  the  inconsistencies  of 
the  character.  "A  Parisian  Romance,"  a  thor- 
oughly unwholesome  and  preposterous  emotional 
concoction  of  Octave  Feuillet,  enabled  Richard 
Mansfield  to  mount  his  first  step  on  the  ladder 
of  fame.  Hitherto  he  had  been  known  only  as  a 
clever  performer  in  light  and  musical  comedy. 
Now  he  persuaded  A.  M.  Palmer  to  give  him  the 
part  of  Baron  Chevrial — a  sordid,  lecherous,  and 
treacherous  old  reprobate — which  had  been  re- 
fused by  the  veteran  comedian,  J.  H.  Stoddart, 
as  unworthy  of  his  talents  and  reputation.  Mans- 
field, little  more  than  a  lad,  dressed  and  acted  the 
character  according  to  his  own  bizarre  conception 
of  it,  and  literally  amazed  his  manager  and  a 

149 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

first-night  audience  by  the  extraordinarily  vital 
picture  which  he  presented  of  senile  depravity 
disporting  itself  in  ghastly  imitation  of  youth. 
It  was  a  genuine  creation,  grotesque  yet  horribly 
life-like,  which  filled  the  spectators  with  a  sort 
of  shuoldering  admiration,  and  made  Mansfield's 
fortune.  As  a  star  in  later  years,  he  always  kept 
this  character  in  his  repertory,  but  in  course  of 
time  he  greatly  weakened  the  effect  of  it  by  un- 
wise elaboration  and  exaggeration.  This  is  one 
of  the  temptations  to  which  stars  yield  readily. 

To  return  to  Clara  Morris,  one  of  the  very  few 
American  actresses  to  whom  the  gift  of  genius 
may  be  properly  ascribed.  It  is  by  no  means 
easy  to  define  her  place  in  any  coldly  critical 
category.  She  was,  first  and  last,  a  natural  born 
actress.  If  judged  by  her  artistic  equipment 
only,  she  could  not  establish  a  claim  to  any  very 
high  place  in  the  ranks  of  her  contemporaries. 
She  was  far  behind  many  of  them  in  artistic  cun- 
ning, but  she  distanced  all  of  them  in  flashes  of 
convincing  realism  and  in  poignancy  of  natural 
emotion.  She  was  often  barely  respectable  as 
an  elocutionist,  she  was  habitually  crude,  and 
occasionally  unrefined,  in  pose,  gesture,  and  ut- 
terance; she  had  distressful  mannerisms,  she 
could  not  or  did  not  attempt  to  modify  or  dis- 
guise her  individual  personality,  her  range  was 

150 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

limited — she  could  not  soar  into  the  upper  re- 
gions of  tragedy — but,  nevertheless,  she  showed, 
especially  in  emotional  crises,  a  strong  grasp  of 
diversified  characters  within  her  own  boundaries 
and  illuminated  them,  at  intervals,  with  such  a 
blaze  of  vivid  truthfulness  that,  for  the  moment, 
she  seemed  to  be  perfectly  identified  with  them. 
Such  effects,  very  rare  upon  the  stage,  may 
safely  be  accepted  as  proofs  of  dramatic  genius, 
of  which,  of  course,  there  are  varying  degrees. 
And  Miss  Morris's  genius,  while  unmistakable, 
was  of  a  very  special  and  restricted  order.  It 
was  not  manifested  in  romance,  in  high  comedy, 
or  in  the  heroic  emotions,  whether  good  or  evil, 
but  shone  out  resplendently  in  the  intensification 
of  the  commoner  passions  of  ordinary  human 
nature,  and  particularly  in  the  depiction  of 
pathetic  suffering,  whether  mute  or  tearfully 
eloquent.  As  she  never  really  succeeded,  or  came 
very  near  to  success,  in  any  great  part,  she  can 
not  be  called  a  great  actress.  It  is  only  in  great 
parts,  embodying  lofty  imagination,  that  demon- 
strations of  a  great  interpretative  faculty  can  be 
made.  This  test  she  failed  to  satisfy.  But  she 
was  great  as  a  realist  in  the  exaggerated,  false, 
or  morbid  emotionalism  of  the  current  French 
plays  of  her  period,  and  displayed  high  intelli- 
gence in  a  considerable  range  of  English  drama. 

151 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Miss  Morris  had  already  won  renown  as  an 
emotional  actress  at  Daly's  and  elsewhere  when 
she  appeared  in  the  Union  Square  Theater  in 
1874  as  Blanche  de  Chelles,  the  abominable 
heroine  of  Octave  Feuillet's  "The  Sphinx."  Psy- 
chologically the  young  woman  was  a  bundle  of 
the  grossest  inconsistencies,  an  early  example, 
possibly,  of  divided  and  warring  personalities. 
Dominated  entirely  by  her  passions,  she  plots 
to  poison  her  dearest  friend  in  order  to  run  away 
with  her  husband.  Then  to  prove  her  innocence 
she  agrees  to  marry  another  man  whom  she  de- 
tests and,  as  a  climax,  swallows  the  poison  which 
she  had  prepared  for  her  rival.  The  whole  play 
was  nasty  rubbish.  Miss  Morris  not  only 
triumphed  in  it,  but  actually  made  the  creature 
she  impersonated  plausible  if  not  credible.  Her 
acting  was  extraordinarily  specious  and  subtle, 
full  of  fascination,  venom,  and  passion,  and,  at 
the  last,  of  a  stony-eyed  despair  which  carried 
the  house  by  storm.  It  was  an  ignoble  but 
thrilling  achievement.  A  month  later  she  essayed 
the  character  of  Julia  in  Sheridan  Knowles's 
"The  Hunchback,"  which,  artificial  as  it  is,  con- 
tains the  elements  of  flighty,  wilful,  but  pure  and 
honorable  womanhood.  She  had  not  the  artistic 
training  necessary  to  a  really  good  performance 
of  the  part,  but  these  traits  she  did  interpret,  and 

152 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

in  the  more  serious  scenes  with  Clifford  and  Sir 
Walter  she  evinced  such  an  appealing  sincerity 
that  minor  artistic  delinquencies  were  forgotten. 
If  she  was  not  Julia,  she  suggested  nothing  of 
Blanche  de  Chelles.  Ketiring  from  the  Union 
Square  Theater  for  a  time,  she  entered  upon  a 
series  of  bold  experiments  elsewhere,  adventur- 
ing first  upon  Lady  Macbeth,  in  which  she,  a 
modern  of  the  moderns,  challenged  comparison 
with  Charlotte  Cushman  and  other  less  noted  old- 
school  impersonators  of  the  part. 

Her  audacity  was  largely  in  excess  of  her 
equipment,  but  she  made  no  ridiculous  failure. 
Neither  in  physique  nor  in  declamatory  power 
was  she  fitted  for  parts  of  tragic  dignity  and  pas- 
sion. And  she  did  not  attempt  the  impossible. 
*  *  Look  like  the  innocent  flower,  but  be  the  serpent 
under  it,"  was  the  line  that  furnished  the  key- 
note to  her  conception.  She  presented  a  slight, 
lithe  figure,  richly  but  plainly  dressed,  a  girlish 
and,  but  for  a  certain  hardness  in  the  eyes  and 
mouth,  an  innocent  face,  surmounted  by  a  coro- 
net and  a  mass  of  golden  hair — a  seductive  and 
dangerous  siren,  full  of  lure  and  guile,  amatory, 
callous,  ambitious,  and  immoral.  And  such  were 
the  characteristics  which  she  successfully  por- 
trayed. She  did  not  dominate  her  husband,  but 
humored,  tempted  and  spurred  him. 

153 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

From  the  traditional  notion  of  Lady  Macbeth 
she  was,  of  course,  leagues  away,  but  not  much 
further  than  was  Ellen  Terry.  Conservative 
critics  rated  her  soundly,  but  her  ideal  was  not 
entirely  devoid  of  authoritative  support.  The 
great  Sarah  Siddons  herself  is  said  to  have 
found  warrant  for  it,  but  rejected  it  as  unsuited 
to  her  majestic  style.  Henry  Irving  created  a 
new  Macbeth  to  harmonize  with  his  own  artistic 
limitations  and  personal  idiosyncrasies.  Miss 
Morris  did  the  same  thing;  but  we  know  that 
what  is  but  a  choleric  word  for  a  captain  is  flat 
blasphemy  for  the  private  soldier.  Personally 
I  believe  that  the  true  Lady  Macbeth  is  to  be 
found  midway  between  the  Morris-Terry  and  the 
Siddons-Cushman  types.  The ,  latter  is  the 
grander  and  more  imposing,  but  the  former  is 
more  human  and,  perhaps,  more  subtle. 

With  the  masses  the  more  heroic  embodiment 
will  always  take  precedence.  Miss  Morris's  as- 
sumption had  at  least  the  merits  of  originality, 
cleverness,  and  sustained  interest.  She  was 
never  conventional  and  she  made  many  interest- 
ing points.  Her  elocution,  inevitably,  was  sadly 
defective.  Her  reading  of  Macbeth 's  letter  was, 
from  the  old  point  of  view,  tame,  but  it  was 
natural  and  not  ineffectual.  In  the  soliloquy  fol- 
lowing it  there  was  more  of  clairvoyant  specula- 

154 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

tion  than  of  murder.  Her  invocation  to  the 
spirits  to  unsex  her  was  uttered  with  the  con- 
centrated intensity  which  she  could  always  com- 
mand. There  was  more  of  mockery  than  ferocity 
in  her  manner  when  she  upbraided  Macbeth  for 
his  vacillation.  She  almost  laughed  when  she 
compared  him  with  the  "poor  cat  in  the  adage." 
After  the  murder,  in  taking  the  daggers  from  her 
demoralized  lord,  she  made  it  plain  that  it  was 
only  her  will-power  that  enabled  her  to  over- 
come her  own  natural  feminine  weakness.  In 
the  banquet  scene  again  she  suggested  with 
unerring  skill  the  strain  of  an  outward  com- 
posure maintained  by  will-power  under  the  stress 
of  harrowing  anxiety  and  dread.  She  signified 
her  distress  to  the  audience  while  offering  a 
courteous  front  to  her  amazed  guests  as  if  the 
king's  seizure  were  really  the  frequent  infirmity 
she  asserted  it  to  be.  But  when  the  chamber  had 
been  cleared  she  exhibited  complete  nervous  col- 
lapse, uttering  a  distressful  wail  which,  however 
unauthorized,  was  wonderfully  impressive;  and 
her  sleep-walking  scene,  wholly  novel  and  mod- 
ern, was  intensely  pathetic  in  its  denotement  of 
spiritual  anguish.  The  personification  as  'a 
whole  lacked  the  regal,  imperious,  imaginative, 
and  masculine  qualities  of  Shakespeare's  heroine 
— it  was  all  woman — but  it  had  brains  and  con- 

155 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

sistency,  excited  admiration  and  reflection,  and, 
considering  the  limitations  of  the  actress,  it  was 
a  memorable  achievement. 

Next  Miss  Morris  essayed  the  character  of 
Evadne  in  Eichard  Sheil's  play,  which  may  be 
classified  as  a  classic  melodrama.  In  this,  too, 
she  disregarded  tradition,  being  unable  to  com- 
ply with  it,  but  with  the  melodramatic,  emotional 
side  of  the  part  she  was  perfectly  qualified  to 
deal,  and  in  the  critical  scenes  she  illustrated  the 
conflict  between  anger,  love,  and  pride  with 
startling  vividness.  She  made  a  wonderful  but 
somewhat  unprofitable  emotional  display  also  in 
a  condensed  version  of  Nicholas  Eowe's  "Jane 
Shore."  Eeturning  to  the  Union  Square  Thea- 
ter, she  appeared  in  a  Frenchified  version  of 
"East  Lynne,"  called  "Miss  Multon,"  in  which 
she  made  a  tremendous  hit.  Nothing  need  be 
said  of  the  play,  although  it  was  much  better  dra- 
matically than  some  other  variations  of  the  story, 
whose  essence  is  a  cloying  sentimentality.  Miss 
Morris's  acting  in  it  was  superb  of  its  kind.  As 
the  unrecognized  mother  tortured  by  the  inno- 
cent prattle  of  her  own  children,  as  the  broken- 
hearted woman,  desperately  seeking  reinstate- 
ment, fleeing  in  shame  from  the  home  she  had 
polluted  and  abandoned,  and  in  the  closing  death 
scene,  she  sounded  all  the  depths  of  poignant 

150 


in 

2 

#    s 

o  s 
%  1 


u 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

pathos.  In  * '  Eaymonde, "  an  adaptation  of  the 
"Mons.  Alphonse"  of  the  younger  Dumas,  she 
made  another  extraordinary  display  of  pathos 
and  passion,  in  the  character  of  a  wife  with  an 
unsuspected  past,  who  betrays  herself  to  her 
trusting  husband  when  fate  confronts  her  with 
her  illegitimate  child;  while  as  Mercy  Merrick  in 
"The  New  Magdalen"  she  simply  obliterated  the 
performance  of  Ada  Cavendish,  the  English 
actress,  who  was  supposed  to  have  made  the  part 
her  own.  In  realistic  pathos,  though  not  in  art,  her 
Camille  was  the  equal  of  Bernhardt's  or  Mod- 
jeska's.  But  she  has  already  filled  more  than  her 
allotted  space.  During  the  period  under  review 
she  was  in  the  plenitude  of  her  powers.  In 
whatever  play  she  appeared  she  was  always  the 
center  of  interest,  except  once,  and  that  was 
when  she  played  Eosalia  in  "La  Morte  Civile" 
in  support  of  Salvini.  Then,  for  once,  she  suf- 
fered eclipse. 

Tommaso  Salvini  was  not  only  incomparably 
the  greatest  actor  and  artist  whom  I  have  ever 
seen,  but  one  who  has  never  had  an  equal,  prob- 
ably, since  the  days  of  Garrick.  In  physical  en- 
dowment, in  diversity  of  histrionic  genius,  and 
in  histrionic  training  he  excelled  all  his  con- 
temporaries. In  his  prime  he  was  a  man  of 
majestic  presence,  a  combination — as  some  one 

157 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

said  of  the  young  Alfred  Tennyson — of  Hercules 
and  Apollo.  His  face,  with  its  spacious  forehead, 
dark  eyes,  and  very  slightly  aquiline  nose,  had  a 
mobility  which  enabled  it  to  express  the  deepest 
or  most  delicate  shades  of  emotion,  while  his 
voice  was  one  of  the  most  powerful,  flexible,  and 
mellifluous  organs  ever  implanted  in  a  human 
throat.  He  was  equipped  with  every  histrionic 
implement  and  faculty  and  he  had  learned  the 
use  of  them  in  arduous  years  of  stock  company 
training  in  boyhood.  His  tragic  genius  was  so 
precocious  that  he  won  renown  in  the  Saul  of 
Alfieri  when  he  was  only  sixteen  years  old.  He 
was  in  the  zenith  of  his  fame  when  he  first 
reached  these  shores  and  thrilled  the  town  with 
his  Othello.  And  it  should  be  noted  here  that  only 
those  who  had  the  privilege  of  seeing  him  in  that 
first  engagement — when  he  was  supported  by  an 
Italian  company  including  the  brilliant  Signora 
Piamonti — ever  saw  his  Othello,  as  he  designed  it, 
at  its  very  best.  When  playing — as  he  did  in 
his  later  engagements — with  English  support,  no 
actress  could  be  found  who  was  willing  to  submit 
herself  as  Piamonti  did  to  the  full  fury  of  his 
assault. 

In  speaking  of  his  Othello — which  I  saw  very 
often — it  is  this  Italian  representation  that  I 
have  in  mind.  It  raised  a  great  critical  hubbub. 

158 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Concerning  the  superfine  quality  of  the  acting, 
there    was    no — or    very    little — difference     of 
opinion,  but  some  of  the  leading  critics — accus- 
tomed to  the  traditional  English  Othello    (gen- 
erally  interpreted   scholastically   by   uninspired 
performers) — emptied  upon  the  undisturbed  head 
of  the  great  Italian  the  bitterest  vials  of  their 
wrath,   charging   him  with   utter   misconception 
and  vulgarization  of  the  character.     They  said 
that  he  butchered  it  as  he  butchered  Desdemona. 
I  do  not  propose  to  reenter  upon  that  contro- 
versy, nor  do  I  believe  that  it  can  be  settled  one 
way  or  the  other  by  reference  to  the  text,  in 
which  I  was  letter  perfect  fifty  years  ago,  and 
which  can  be  made  to  prove  almost  anything. 
How  it  was  played  in  Elizabethan  days  we  don't 
know  and  we  never  shall.    For  myself,  I  am  not 
a  convert  to  the  theory  that  Desdemona  ought  to 
be  immolated  in  the  spirit  of  a  religious  sacrifice. 
Murder,  especially  when  prompted  by  jealousy, 
founded  or  unfounded,  is  murder  and  unjudicial. 
Moreover,   I   am  skeptical   concerning   the   pro- 
priety of  gauging  Shakespeare's  creations  by  the 
rules   of  the   modern   expert  psychologist.     He 
was  a  divine  poet  of  marvelous  invention  and 
dramatic  power,  with  an  almost  miraculous  grasp 
of  the  component  elements  in  human  nature,  a 
most  intricate  and  inconsistent  thing.     His  per- 

159 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

ceptive  knowledge  was  vast,  minute,  and  curious, 
his  scholarship  inaccurate  and  inconsiderable. 
He  seems  to  have  imagined  that  Moor  and  negro 
were  convertible  terms  and  endowed  them  both 
with  British  characteristics.  He  knew  they  were 
dark-skinned,  amorous,  warlike,  and  ferocious. 

In  his  composition  of  Othello  he  added  to  these 
ingredients  tenderness,  courtesy,  credulous  sim- 
plicity, magnanimity,  and  a  liberal  allowance  of 
his  own  poetic  and  civilized  imagination.  To  all 
these  qualities  Salvini  in  his  embodiment  gave 
ample  expression,  but  he  knew  much  more  than 
Shakespeare  did  about  Moorish  manners  and 
characteristics.  He  knew,  for  instance,  that 
Moors  of  that  period  did  not  use  daggers  and 
that  where  their  women  were  concerned  they 
"saw  red."  A  suspected  wife  got  short  shrift 
in  a  Moorish  harem.  Salvini  omitted  the  epilep- 
tic fit — following  the  example  of  most  English 
actors — although  he  could  have  made  it  very  ter- 
rible. But  he  struck  Desdemona,  according  to  the 
old  stage  direction,  and  thus  indicated  the  taint  of 
savage  ancestry.  Actors  incapable  of  presenting 
this  complex  character  in  all  its  phases — a  task 
making  exacting  demands  upon  physical  and 
artistic  resources — have  excellent  practical  rea- 
sons for  excluding  both  the  fit  and  the  blow. 

To  Salvini  the  most  difficult  executive  problems 

160 


TOMMASO  SALVINI 

as  "Ingomar" 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

presented  no  insuperable  obstacles.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  limit  to  the  range  of  his  emo- 
tional expression.  He  exhibited  the  power  of  an 
Edwin  Forrest  in  combination  with  the  delicacy 
and  subtlety  of  a  Duse.  He  could  overwhelm  with 
a  thunderous  outburst — free  from  all  suspicion 
of  rant — or  electrify  with  the  mute  manifestation 
of  suppressed  passion.  He  conceived  an  Othello 
who  was  noble,  Oriental,  and  barbaric,  and  he 
embodied  it  with  a  power  and  consistency  which 
made  it  as  real  and  vital  as  it  was  in  the  highest 
degree  tragic.  No  actor  of  our  times — not 
Phelps,  Edwin  Booth,  or  John  McCullough — ever 
surpassed  him  in  the  authoritative  and  noble 
dignity  of  his  calmer  moments,  but  when  rage  and 
jealousy  stripped  the  gloss  of  civilization  from 
him,  he  was  a  tiger.  His  address  to  the  Senate 
he  delivered  in  a  tone  of  grave,  frank,  fearless 
courtesy  which  was  exactly  appropriate,  and  with 
a  nice  sufficiency  of  suggestive  gesture — easy, 
spontaneous,  apt,  but  not  ornate — which  was  won- 
derfully picturesque  and  natural.  His  reception 
of  Desdemona  was  passionately  tender,  and  he 
met  the  insinuation  ' '  She  has  deceived  her  father 
and  may  thee"  with  a  superb  gesture  of  smiling 
confidence.  In  the  night  scene  at  Cyprus  he 
showed  a  flash  of  his  fiery  and  imperious  nature 
as  he  challenged  lago  for  an  explanation  in 

161 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

trumpet  tones  compelling  prompt  obedience,  and 
his  eyes  blazed  as  he  referred  to  the  awakened 
Desdemona,  but  his  dismissal  of  Cassio  was  curt, 
cool,  and  decisive.  lago's  poison  worked  but 
slowly  in  his  veins.  He  evinced  less  susceptibil- 
ity to  it  than  most  Othellos,  but  when  his  jealousy 
once  had  been  aroused,  the  progressive  increase 
of  the  distemper  was  rapid  and  terrible  until  it 
culminated — after  a  desperate  struggle  for  self- 
control,  illustrated  by  some  of  the  most  ap- 
palling facial  play  ever  seen  upon  the  stage — in 
that  frenzied  rush  upon  lago  which,  in  later 
days,  used  to  be  regarded  as  the  climactic  point 
in  the  performance.  Salvini,  his  whole  form 
dilated  and  quivering  with  rage,  flung  his  tempter 
to  the  floor  and  stood  over  him  with  uplifted  foot 
as  if  about  to  smash  his  face.  Then  he  suddenly 
recovered  his  self-control,  offered  his  hand  to 
his  prostrate  victim  with  a  gesture  of  contrition, 
jerked  him  to  his  feet,  and  retreated  slowly  and 
dejectedly  up  the  stage.  It  may  not  have  been 
Shakespearean,  it  certainly  was  not  dignified,  but 
it  was  intensely  human  and  dramatic  and  was 
executed  with  a  power  and  sincerity  which  estab- 
lished perfect  illusion. 

But  the  effect  of  this  scene — great  as  it  was — 
was  exceeded  (in  the  Italian  version)  in  the  mur- 
der of  Desdemona.  The  bed,  concealed  behind 

162 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

heavy  curtains,  was  in  the  rear  right-hand  corner 
of  the  stage.  Desdemona,  not  yet  disrobed, 
alarmed  by  the  menace  in  Othello's  look  and 
manner,  gradually  retreated  as  she  replied  to  his 
interrogations  until  she  reached  the  left-hand 
corner  of  the  stage  by  the  footlights.  As  played 
by  Piamonti — a  lovely  woman  and  magnificent 
actress — she  was  the  personification  of  pitiful, 
protesting  love  gradually  resolving  into  speech- 
less terror.  Salvini,  convulsed,  with  fixed  and 
flaming  eyes,  half-crouched,  slowly  circled  the 
stage  toward  her,  muttering  savagely  and  inar- 
ticulately as  she  cowered  before  him.  Rising  at 
last  to  his  full  height  with  extended  arms,  he 
pounced  upon  her,  lifted  her  into  the  air,  dashed 
with  her  across  the  stage  and  through  the  cur- 
tains, which  fell  behind  him.  You  heard  a  crash 
as  he  flung  her  on  the  bed,  and  growls  as  of  a 
wild  beast  over  his  prey.  It  was  awful — utterly, 
abominably  un- Shakespearean,  if  you  will,  but 
supremely,  paralyzingly  real — only  great  genius, 
imaginative  and  executive,  could  have  presented 
such  a  picture  of  man,  bereft  by  maniacal  jeal- 
ousy of  mercy  and  reason,  reduced  to  primeval 
savagery. 

Then  came  a  long  pause.  Emilia  knocked  at 
the  door,  once,  twice,  thrice,  louder  and  louder, 
as  she  called  Othello's  name.  Presently  the  cur- 

163 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

tains  opened  a  little  and  Othello's  face,  wild 
eyed,  was  thrust  out,  and  withdrawn.  The  ten- 
sion was  almost  insufferable.  At  last  Othello, 
sullen,  as  if  in  a  dazed  calm,  came  forth  and  let 
Emilia  and  the  others  in.  The  madness  in  him 
had  subsided.  There  was  a  gleam  of  it  in  his 
swift  attack  upon  lago,  but  he  played  the  con- 
cluding scenes  with  fine  pathos  and  dignity.  He 
made  no  extravagant  moan  over  his  own  or  Des- 
demona's  fate.  Eealizing  the  enormity  of  his 
folly  and  his  crime,  he  knew  how  to  expiate  it 
and  avoid  long  agonies  of  remorse.  He  spoke 
the  concluding  lines  with  proud  composure,  and 
then  swiftly  cut  his  throat  with  a  little  scimitar 
that  had  been  concealed  in  his  girdle,  closing  the 
tragedy  with  a  final  touch  of  horrible  realism. 

In  succeeding  engagements,  playing  with  Eng- 
lish actors,  Salvini  enacted  the  murder  scene  very 
nearly  in  accordance  with  traditional  lines,  with 
Desdemona  on  her  couch  at  his  entrance.  His 
performance  then  was  more  dignified  and  poetic, 
but  much  less  thrilling.  Even  then  he  excelled 
all  other  actors  in  the  sudden  access  of  insensate 
fury  with  which  he  committed  the  actual  killing. 
The  effect  of  the  face  in  the  curtains  he  pre- 
served, and  it  was  a  notable  dramatic  stroke. 

I  have  dwelt  with  some  minuteness  upon  this 
performance,  but  must  not  omit  to  note  one  sig- 

164 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

nificant  fact  in  connection  with  it,  and  that  is 
that,  except  in  the  instance  specified,  it  never 
altered.  The  artistic  finish  of  it  was  to  the  full 
as  remarkable  as  the  power.  The  delicacy  of  its 
byplay  and  facial  expression  was  exquisite. 
Every  motion  and  attitude  was  the  result  of 
conscientious  study,  every  representation  was 
an  exact  reproduction  of  its  predecessor.  It 
was  possible  to  make  the  details  of  it  the  sub- 
ject of  a  printed  record.  And  yet  there  was  no- 
where the  least  trace  of  premeditation  or  sug- 
gestion of  mechanism.  Salvini  was  far  too  great 
an  artist  to  put  any  trust  in  those  momentary 
intuitions  which  ordinary  performers  dignify  by 
the  name  of  inspiration.  Such  "inspiration" 
can  only  result  in  the  manifestation  of  the  in-; 
dividual  self  of  the  performer.  Salvini  had  no 
mannerisms.  His  stature  and  form,  indeed,  made 
disguise  almost  impossible,  but  his  characters 
presented  wide  distinctions  in  gait,  gesture,  car- 
riage, and  manners.  His  versatility  was  aston- 
ishing. In  Italy  he  was  as  much  admired  in  high 
comedy  as  in  tragedy.  Eistori,  who  was  not 
altogether  happy  in  her  own  American  ex- 
periences, warned  him  against  trying  tragedy  in 
the  United  States.  The  success  of  his  "Othello," 
however,  and  the  failure  of  his  "Sullivan"  kept 
him  mainly  in  the  tragic  field. 

165 


XII 

TOMMASO  SALVINI  AS  CONRAD,  AS  NIGER, 
AS  SAUL,  AND  AS  LEAR 

PERHAPS  the  most  striking  instance  of  Salvini's 
histrionic  suppleness  was  given  when,  by  way 
of  contrast  to  his  Moor,  he  appeared  as  Conrad 
in  "La  Morte  Civile"  of  Giacometti.  Briefly 
this  is  a  study  of  a  once  prosperous,  honorable, 
but  passionate  man,  sentenced  to  prison  for 
homicide,  who,  after  fifteen  years  of  confinement, 
breaks  out  of  jail.  A  wretched  fugitive,  broken 
in  mind  and  body,  seeing  in  each  bush  an  officer, 
his  one  aim  is  to  rejoin  the  wife  who  has  re- 
nounced him,  and  the  little  daughter,  the  idol  of 
his  dreams,  who  long  ago  has  forgotten  him  and 
is  not  even  conscious  of  his  existence.  He  dis- 
covers them  by  chance  in  the  guardianship  of  an 
insincere  and  worldly  priest — to  whom  he  has 
applied  for  aid — and  of  a  generous  infidel.  The 
former,  by  subtle  cross-questioning,  forces  the 
truth  from  him,  and  then  threatens  to  surrender 
him  to  the  police  if  he  does  not  abandon  his 
quest.  The  infidel  sympathizes  with  him,  but 
points  out  that  as  he  has  lost  all  his  civil  rights, 

166 


is  civilly  dead,  he  can  exert  no  influence  over  the 
wife,  who  hates  and  dreads  him,  and  can  only 
wreck  the  happiness  of  his  idolized  child  by 
revealing  his  identity.  It  is  his  duty  to  suffer  in 
silence.  Conrad,  after  a  struggle,  acquiesces  in 
the  sentence  that  means  death  to  all  his  hopes, 
on  condition  that  he  may,  as  a  stranger,  have  one 
meeting  with  his  child.  This  grace,  by  agreement 
with  his  wife,  Eosalia,  to  whom  he  has  appealed, 
is  conceded,  and  he  dies  of  a  broken  heart  as  he 
tries  to  fold  the  wondering  girl  in  his  embrace. 
The  whole  character  is  written  in  a  vein  of 
ever  deepening  melancholy,  and  Salvini  played 
it  with  an  astounding  realism  and  gripping 
pathos.  In  his  hunted,  weary,  footsore,  famished 
convict  the  impersonator  of  Othello  was  totally 
unrecognizable.  The  two  characters  had  not  a 
look  or  a  gesture  in  common.  It  is  impossible 
now  to  describe  the  Conrad  in  detail.  Space  will 
not  permit  it.  The  important  points  in  connec- 
tion with  it  are  that  it  was  perfect  in  finish  and 
consistency,  that  it  was  absolutely  true  and  vital, 
that  it  was  antipodal  to  Othello  in  every  respect, 
and  that  no  effect  in  it — not  even  the  most  poig- 
nant— was  in  the  least  degree  dependent  upon 
physical  strength.  There  was  not  a  single  pas- 
sage of  tragic  passion  in  it  from  beginning  to 
end.  Only  once  did  the  actor  raise  his  voice  in 

167 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

anger,  and  that  was  in  the  utterance  of  the  word 
"Fugite,"  with  which,  accompanied  by  a  quick 
gesture  of  menace,  he  dismissed  the  priest  after 
an  interview  in  which  every  form  of  pathetic 
appeal  and  expostulation  had  been  futile.  In 
that  there  was  a  momentary  flash  of  the  dan- 
gerous passion  that  had  made  the  man  a  mur- 
derer. There  was  another  passage  in  which  he 
displayed  animation,  the  description  of  his  es- 
cape from  prison,  which  was  illuminated  by  such 
a  wealth  of  vivid  and  varied  pantomime  that  no 
knowledge  of  Italian  was  necessary  to  under- 
stand it.  The  eloquence  of  gesture  and  facial 
play  has  rarely  been  so  forcibly  exemplified. 

The  remainder  of  the  performance  was  pure 
pathos,  always  subdued,  infinitely  varied  in  vocal 
tone  and  modulation,  vitally  truthful,  and  in- 
tensely appealing.  Through  the  last  two  acts 
the  man  was  palpably  dying  of  sheer  weakness 
and  despair.  But  there  was  none  of  the  morbid 
thrills  with  which  Bernhardt,  Morris,  and  others 
have  embellished  their  death  scenes,  no  horrible 
hospital  morbidities.  The  climax  came  when  at 
the  last  moment,  with  his  daughter  kneeling  at 
his  feet,  in  compliance  with  her  softening 
mother's  direction,  he  rallied  all  his  energies  to 
bend  forward  in  his  chair  to  take  her  to  his  heart. 
Then  death  seized  him,  and  he  pitched  forward 

108 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

with  a  crash  headforemost  on  the  stage,  where 
he  lay  in  a  heap  as  the  curtain  fell.  Well  do  I 
remember  the  effect  of  that  scene  on  the  first 
night  he  played  it  here.  The  house  was  not  one- 
third  full — he  and  the  play  were  unknown  to  the 
public — but  the  spectators  had  been  constantly 
enthralled.  Now  they  sat  motionless;  almost 
breathless.  The  hush  was  that  of  a  death  cham- 
ber. Finally  some  one  clapped  his  hands,  and 
the  spell  was  broken.  The  next  instant  the  thea- 
ter was  filled  with  plaudits.  Men  and  women 
leaped  to  their  feet,  some  stood  on  their  chairs, 
waved  their  arms  and  shouted.  Such  a  demon- 
stration has  seldom  been  seen  in  New  York.  Then 
Salvini  same  before  the  curtain,  bland,  composed, 
stalwart,  smiling.  It  was  like  a  resurrection. 

Presently  he  revealed  his  genius  in  a  totally 
different  light  in  "Sullivan,"  the  play  known  to 
us  as  "David  Garrick."  When  the  French  ver- 
sion of  the  play  was  produced  in  Paris  the  man- 
agement thought  it  wise  to  substitute  the  name 
of  some  prominent  contemporary  English  actor 
for  that  of  Garrick,  and  as  Barry  Sullivan  was 
just  then  much  in  evidence  on  the  London 
"posters"  they  selected  him.  So  Garrick  became 
Sullivan  in  Italy  also.  The  piece  is  tricky,  con- 
ventional, farcical,  and  often  absurd,  especially  in 
its  supposed  reflection  of  civic  life  in  old  London, 

169 


but  undoubtedly  provides  excellent  opportunities 
for  a  skilled  comedian.  Lawrence  Barrett  played 
the  leading  part  with  genuine  emotional  power, 
but  was  ill  at  ease  in  the  lighter  scenes;  E.  A. 
Sothern  and  Charles  Wyndham  were  admirable 
in  the  lighter  but  unconvincing  in  the  serious 
episodes.  Salvini  was  immensely  superior  to 
all  three.  He  played  throughout  in  the  vein  of 
light  comedy,  as  a  courtly,  chivalrous,  intellectual, 
and  ardent  gentleman,  conferring  dignity  upon 
a  piece  completely  unworthy  of  his  abilities.  Of 
course,  he  indulged  in  no  buffooneries,  but  in  the 
polished  ease  of  his  drawing-room  manner  he 
gave  no  hint  of  the  tragedian.  In  his  recognition 
of  his  beloved  ideal — in  the  girl  whom  he  had 
pledged  himself  to  disgust — he  adopted  no  such 
theatrical  artifice  as  Sothern  and  Wyndham,  who 
staggered  backward  and  grasped  a  chair  for  sup- 
port, but  created  a  far  stronger  and  more  natural 
effect  by  the  sudden  rigidity  of  his  attitude,  and 
an  involuntary  catching  of  the  breath,  as  if  for 
the  moment  he  had  been  petrified.  But  he  re- 
covered instantly  and  bowed  low,  as  if  to  con- 
ceal his  face.  His  subsequent  behavior  to  her 
was  delicately  suggestive  of  compassionate  sor- 
row. In  the  drunken  scene  he  did  what  neither 
Sothern  nor  Wyndham  could  do.  They  were  al- 
ternately drunk  or  sober.  His  pretended  inebriety 

170 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

was  continuous,  but  beneath  the  veil  of  feverish 
gayety  could  be  discerned  the  throbbings  of  a 
heart  tortured  by  a  sense  of  outraged  love  and 
bitter  degradation.  It  was  a  wonderful  example 
of  histrionic  transparency.  In  the  final  scene 
with  the  heroine  he  distanced  all  rivals.  The 
fervor  and  tenderness  in  his  wooing  could  not 
have  been  surpassed  by  Fechter,  and  his  appeal 
to  the  girl's  sense  of  honor  and  duty  vibrated 
with  passion  and  pathos. 

His  next  triumph  was  won  as  Niger,  the 
gladiator  in  Saumet's  tragedy,  or  romantic  and 
poetic  melodrama,  "The  Gladiator."  No  greater 
contrast  could  be  imagined  than  that  between 
his  refined  and  intellectual  Sullivan  and  the  sav- 
age animalism  of  the  brutal  and  ferocious  bar- 
barian. Some  critics  preferred  his  Niger  to  his 
Othello.  I  did  not,  as  it  required  much  less 
imaginative  power,  but  it  exhibited  much  of  the 
physical  prowess  and  tragic  passion  of  the  Moor 
and  fell  foul  of  no  honored  traditions.  The  play 
is  a  fine  work,  both  in  a  literary  and  dramatic 
sense,  but  Niger  is  not  a  complex  character.  He 
is  vast  in  bulk  and  passion.  Salvini  made  him 
colossal  in  every  respect.  His  first  great  effect 
was  wrought  in  the  delivery  of  the  fine  speech 
descriptive  of  his  wrongs,  his  hunger  for  revenge, 
and  his  defiance  of  the  gods  who  had  deserted 

171 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

him.  The  murder  of  his  wife  was  related  with 
an  appalling  pantomime.  But  it  was  in  the  fourth 
act,  in  the  famous  arena  scene,  that  the  full 
splendor  of  his  physical  resources  was  shown. 
Standing  alone  in  the  amphitheater,  he  com- 
pletely filled  the  stage  with  the  boldness  of  his 
action  and  the  thunderous  vigor  of  his  declama- 
tion. In  challenging  the  onslaught  of  the  wild 
beasts,  his  braggadocio  was  superb.  In  his  tin- 
willingness  to  execute  a  defenceless  woman  there 
was  at  first  no  jot  of  moral  compunction,  only  a 
sort  of  professional  disgust.  But  when  he  dis- 
covered that  the  intended  victim  was  Neodamia, 
the  one  object  of  his  affection,  his  appeal  to  the 
populace  for  mercy  was  thrilling  in  the  wildness 
of  its  supplication,  and  his  offer  of  universal 
combat  tremendous  in  its  ferocious  arrogance. 
But  he  attained  to  even  greater  heights  when, 
having  at  last  resolved  that  it  was  more  merciful 
to  kill  the  girl  than  leave  her  to  the  lions,  he 
recognizes  in  her  the  daughter  for  whom  he  had 
long  been  searching.  He  seemed  the  center  of  a 
veritable  hurricane,  a  whirlwind,  of  emotions. 
Love,  rage,  fear,  pity,  desperation,  succeeded  each 
other  with  lightning  rapidity,  and  all  were  de- 
picted with  an  energy  that  appeared  exhaustless. 
This  physical  energy  was  a  most  impressive  fea- 
ture in  the  exhibition,  but  the  constant  manifesta- 

172 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

tion  of  intellectual  purpose  and  control  was  still 
more  striking.  There  was  no  rant,  no  aimless, 
hysterical  contortion  or  shrieking.  The  actor 
was  always  master  of  himself  and  of  his  art. 
I  am  not  exaggerating.  As  I  survey  the  theatri- 
cal firmament  as  I  have  known  it,  Salvini  shines 
among  the  constellations  velut  inter  ignes  luna 
minor  es. 

I  have  selected  these  illustrations  because  they 
embody  the  more  salient  characteristics  of  his 
acting,  as  well  as  his  personality.  Of  his  other 
impersonations  in  this  neighborhood  I  must  speak 
briefly.  Beside  his  Ingomar  all  other  interpreta- 
tions of  the  part  appear  dull,  prosaic,  and  puny. 
He  filled  it  with  the  spirit  of  romance,  barbaric 
humor,  the  passion  of  liberty,  and  the  atmosphere 
of  the  forest.  He  increased  the  apparent  value 
of  the  play  by  enriching  the  author's  scheme  with 
his  own  decorative  detail,  which  is,  of  course, 
the  legitimate  function  of  the  inspired  romantic 
actor.  The  gradual  subjugation  and  transforma- 
tion of  the  rugged,  fierce,  but  generous  and  im- 
pressionable barbarian  by  the  enchantment  of 
love  were  signified  by  innumerable  delicate  grada- 
tions— a  thousand  little  subtle  artifices — of  which 
even  such  a  performer  as  John  McCullough  was 
entirely  incapable.  In  the  more  passionate 
scenes,  it  need  scarcely  be  said,  he  was  splendidly 

173 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

imposing  and  picturesque.  As  an  example  of 
realism,  informed  by  artistic  imagination,  the 
mere  process  of  his  awakening  from  slumber  in 
the  first  scene  was  a  masterpiece. 

He  was  superb  again  as  the  Biblical  Samson, 
a  character  which  his  vast  bulk  enabled  him  to 
assume  with  plausibility,  presenting  a  most  tragic 
picture  of  gigantic  ruin  and  despair  in  his  blind- 
ness and  degradation.  His  acting  in  the  final 
scene  was  inspirational  enough  to  lend  illusion 
to  a  theatrical  scene  of  most  distressful  unreality. 
But  the  incident  that  stirred  his  audience  to  most 
enthusiasm  was  the  relation,  in  the  first  act,  of 
his  fight  with  the  lion,  in  which  the  vividness  of 
his  gesture  made  the  rending  of  the  beast  almost 
visible. 

His  Saul,  in  Alfieri's  Biblical  tragedy,  I  am 
sorry  to  say  that  I  never  saw.  It  was  accounted 
among  his  greatest  triumphs.  His  King  Lear 
was  a  magnificent  creation,  but  for  various  rea- 
sons failed  to  meet  with  the  appreciation  it  de- 
served. In  the  first  place,  his  support  and  the 
Italian  version  of  the  play  were  both  irretriev- 
ably bad.  In  the  second,  his  conception  was  very 
generally  assailed  by  the  critics  as  unmajestic 
and  un-Shakespearean.  There  was  a  certain 
amount  of  truth  in  both  these  accusations.  Un- 
doubtedly the  actor  was  more  concerned  about 

174 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

the  human  attributes  of  the  character  than  the 
regality  of  its  manners.  Possibly  he  reflected 
that  Lear  reigned  in  a  primitive  period,  had 
grown  old  in  authority,  cared  more  for  the  sub- 
stance than  the  shadow,  and  was  likely  to  carry 
himself  with  dignified  simplicity,  sure  in  the  pos- 
session of  prerogatives  that  had  not  yet  been 
questioned.  This  was  the  attitude  he  adopted. 

As  for  the  alleged  un-Shakespearean  quality  of 
the  performance,  this  charge  really  meant  that 
it  disregarded,  or  was  in  conflict  with,  many 
venerable  traditional  points  and  customs  of  the 
English  stage — and  it  was  true.  But  it  does  not 
in  the  least  degree  follow  that  the  interpretation 
was  therefore  opposed  to  the  spirit  of  the  text. 
Stage  laws  are  not  those  of  the  Medes  and  Per- 
sians. As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  actually  were 
many  passages — none,  however,  of  paramount 
importance — where  Salvini  missed  the  Shake- 
spearean meaning,  for  the  simple  reason  that  the 
Italian  version  was  often,  and  for  obvious  rea- 
sons, so  inadequate  or  misleading  that,  as  he 
knew  very  little  English,  he  had  no  means  of 
divining  it.  This  was  especially  the  case  in  the  dia- 
logues with  the  Fool,  where  many  English  actors 
have  been  hopelessly  at  sea.  But  all  the  leading 
essentials  of  the  situation  he  grasped  with  per- 
fect comprehension  and  capability — from  his  own 

175 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Italian  points  of  view.  It  may  be  freely  admitted 
that  his  reading  was  foreign.  He  conceived  an 
old,  partly  barbaric  chieftain,  hale,  autocratic, 
and  passionate,  driven  to  madness  and  death  by 
the  treachery  and  usurpation  of  his  unnatural 
daughters,  and  the  torturing  realization  of  an 
impotence  brought  about  by  his  own  folly,  ex- 
posure, and  despair.  And  this  is  Lear.  In  the 
opening  scenes  Salvini  was  far  less  tempestuous 
than  most  English  actors.  It  was  only  by  his 
slow,  heavy  tread  that  his  king  denoted  age.  He 
was  gray,  not  white,  and  his  voice  had  lost  none 
of  its  resonance.  He  announced  the  partition  of 
his  kingdom  with  the  curt  decision  of  a  man 
whose  word  was  law  and  irrevocable.  He  chuckled 
good-naturedly  at  the  exuberant  protestations  of 
Goneril  and  Began.  When  Cordelia  declined  to 
subscribe  to  them,  he  leaned  backward  on  the 
throne  and  gazed  at  her  in  blank  amazement. 
There  was  no  explosion  of  passion,  but,  as  she 
remained  stedfast,  the  storm  gathered  on  his 
brow,  until,  finally,  he  uttered  his  renunciation 
in  low,  deliberate  tones,  vibrating  with  inflexible 
purpose  and  mortal  pain.  Upon  the  protesting 
Kent  he  turned  with  a  flash  of  fury,  but  checked 
himself  and  stood  erect,  motionless  and  formid- 
able, for  many  seconds,  before  he  delivered  the 
sentence  of  banishment  with  a  Jove-like  emphasis. 

176 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

The  actor  missed  many  "points"  and  opportu- 
nities for  applause,  but  it  was  evident  that  his 
restraint  was  the  result  of  calculated  design  and 
in  accordance  with  his  view  of  the  character. 
The  tragic  passion  in  Lear  was  not  to  find  free 
vent  until  his  wits  began  to  turn.  It  was  mani- 
fested with  tremendous  effect  in  the  curse  upon 
Goneril,  while  in  the  mad  scenes  there  were 
lightning-like  eruptions,  in  alternation  with  deli- 
cate strokes  of  senile  humor  or  wistful  pathos. 
"Whether  or  not  the  interpretation  was  Shake- 
spearean, it  was  grand,  imaginative,  and  pro- 
foundly affecting.  Nothing  could  be  more  touch- 
ing than  his  recognition  of  Cordelia  or  his  lament 
over  her  corpse.  The  whole  embodiment  was 
worthy  of  association  with  this  master  work  of 
human  genius. 

In  Hamlet  Salvini  was  out  of  his  element.  He 
furnished  a  superbly  romantic  and  melodramatic 
performance,  and  that  was  all.  His  Hamlet  was 
essentially  a  man  of  action — although  dilatory  in 
the  matter  of  his  father's  murder — of  a  fervent 
and  passionate  temper  whose  assumption  of  mad- 
ness was  entirely  feigned.  Of  the  poetic  and 
tender  melancholy,  the  philosophic  mood,  the 
vacillating,  perplexed  nature,  he  suggested  little. 
His  Prince  would  never  have  wasted  time  in 
soliloquy,  but  would  have  gone  straight  back  to 

177 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

the  castle  after  his  encounter  with  the  Ghost  and 
run  the  murderous  King  through  the  body.  His 
own  view  of  the  character  was  presented  with 
his  usual  brilliancy  of  design  and  execution,  and 
was  admirable  as  a  bit  of  romantic  acting,  but 
never  reached  the  soul  of  the  matter.  Somewhat 
similar  criticism  is  applicable  to  his  Macbeth. 
This,  too,  was  magnificent  in  execution,  but  melo- 
dramatic and  romantic  rather  than  truly  tragic, 
although  evincing  plenty  of  tragic  power.  The  ex- 
ternal Macbeth  was  perfectly  portrayed,  not  the 
inner.  It  was  a  brilliant,  superficial  study,  im- 
plying an  imperfect  comprehension  of  the  text. 
This  Macbeth  was  consistently  bloody,  bold,  and 
resolute,  and  in  inches  and  aspect  a  most  impos- 
ing figure.  He  needed  no  spur  to  his  intent. 
There  was  murder  in  his  eye  and  voice  when  he 
warned  his  wife  of  Duncan's  approaching  visit. 
When  he  said,  "We  will  speak  further,"  it  was 
with  an  expression  of  fixed  resolve.  His  later  re- 
fusal "to  proceed  further  in  this  business"  was 
prompted  solely  by  desire  to  retain  "golden 
opinions."  His  "If  we  should  fail"  was  purely 
speculative.  When  his  wife  unfolded  her  plan, 
he  embraced  her  rapturously  in  admiration  of 
her  extraordinary  qualities.  His  "dagger 
soliloquy,"  thrillingly  impressive  in  its  rapt  in- 
tensity, betokened  superstitious  wonderment 

178 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

rather  than  spiritual  horror.  In  his  description 
of  the  murder  his  vivid  pantomime  was  masterly. 
In  the  banquet  scene  his  superstitious  fear  was 
terrible,  but  he  quickly  rallied  when  the  vision 
disappeared.  His  closing  scenes  were  played  in 
paroxysmal  moods  of  despairing  ferocity.'  His 
impersonation  was  luridly  pictorial — perfect  in 
execution — but  he  did  not  give  Shakespeare's 
Macbeth. 


179 


XIII 


IN  natural  order  of  artistic  precedence,  Edwin 
Booth  claims  consideration  after  Salvini.  The 
two  were  contemporaries  and  for  many  years 
Booth  was  the  recognized  leader  of  the  American 
tragic  stage.  Less  virile  than  the  muscular  For- 
rest, whom  he  succeeded,  he  excelled  him  in 
subtlety,  brains,  grace,  and  real  dramatic  fire, 
while,  at  his  best,  he  was  superior  to  E.  L. 
Davenport — a  far  more  versatile  performer — 
John  McCullough,  Lawrence  Barrett,  and  other 
less  prominent  rivals.  He  owed  his  preeminence 
partly  to  inherited  ability,  partly  to  his  early 
and  arduous  experiences  in  every  known  form  of 
theatrical  entertainment,  from  negro  minstrelsy 
upward,  and  partly  to  his  personal  charm.  To 
the  public  he  was  endeared  by  his  misfortunes 
and  his  talents. 

Although  a  good  many  years  have  slipped  away 
since  he  last  graced  the  footlights,  his  life  has  been 
the  subject  of  so  much  critical  and  biographical 
comment  that  his  history  and  his  art  must  still 
be  fresh  in  the  memory  of  most  persons  inter- 

180 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

ested  in  the  theater.  To  avoid  mere  repetition, 
I  shall,  in  speaking  of  him,  confine  myself  to 
some  general  personal  impressions. 

He  was  a  great  but  not,  I  think,  a  very  great 
actor,  and  a  most  accomplished  artist,  expert  in 
all  stage  technique  and  artifice.  His  control  of 
facial  expression  was  remarkable.  His  counte- 
nance was  handsome,  pale,  intellectual,  and  re- 
fined. His  long  black  hair,  large  and  luminous 
dark  eyes,  somewhat  Hebraic  nose,  and  strong 
mouth  indicated  a  character  both  poetic  and  reso- 
lute. In  frame  he  was  not  large,  but  well  knit, 
nicely  proportioned,  and  graceful;  his  voice  was 
sonorous  and  melodious.  In  his  early  days  he 
was  somewhat  addicted  to  the  vice  of  "mouth- 
ing," but  he  conquered  this,  and  afterward  his 
elocution  was  singularly  clear,  crisp,  and  sig- 
nificant, trumpet-like  in  passionate  declamation, 
soft,  mellow,  and  flexible  in  moments  of  pathos. 
His  voice  had  not  the  organ-like  volume  of 
Sal  vim's,  but  was  a  rich  and  beautiful  instru- 
ment upon  which  he  played  with  great  skill. 

When  I  first  saw  him  he  was  in  the  fulness  of 
his  prime  and  his  popularity.  His  famous  en- 
gagement at  the  old  Winter  Garden,  and  his  dis- 
astrous but  brilliant  enterprise  in  his  own  theater 
in  Twenty-third  Street — a  temple  long  ago  de- 
molished— were  ended.  He  had  outlived  the 

181 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

blasting  effects  of  his  mad  brother's  crime,  and 
recovered  from  injuries  in  a  carriage  accident 
which  once  threatened  to  disable  him  permanently. 
A  long  era  of  prosperity  and  honor,  on  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic — sometimes  sadly  darkened 
by  peculiarly  cruel  domestic  troubles — was  be- 
fore him.  In  his  life  the  sweet  and  the  bitter 
were  mingled  in  almost  equal  porportions;  and 
there  can  be  little  doubt  that  his  private  afflic- 
tions, most  courageously  endured,  added  to  his 
artistic  temperament  that  touch  of  grave  and 
tender  melancholy  so  well  suited  to  his  Hamlet 
and  some  other  impersonations. 

They  never  dampened  the  artistic  fire  in  him, 
but  they  may,  perhaps,  have  been  partly  account- 
able for  the  strange  indifference  which,  in  his 
middle  career,  he  showed  to  the  capacity  of  the 
support  which  he  received  upon  the  stage.  I 
saw  him  in  everything  that  he  played  from  1875 
up  to  the  date  of  his  retirement,  and — until  he 
came  under  the  management  of  Lawrence  Barrett 
— I  can  not  recall  any  occasion  upon  which  he 
was  surrounded  with  a  decently  adequate  cast. 
The  tacit  assent  which  he  gave  to  some  of  the 
worst  features  of  the  star  system  was  deplorable. 
His  own  brilliant  work  helped  to  keep  the  literary 
drama  upon  the  stage,  but  left  it  desolate  when 
he  departed. 

182 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

It  is  as  the  representative  Hamlet  of  Ms  day 
that  he  is  now,  perhaps,  chiefly  remembered,  and 
beyond  all  question  this  was  an  exquisite  bit  of 
artistry.  Personally  I  have  always  been  inclined 
to  award  the  palm  to  the  early  embodiment  of 
Charles  Fechter — except  in  the  matter  of  oratory 
— as  more  nearly  fulfilling  the  Shakespearean 
ideal.  It  was  more  human,  more  consistent  as 
a  personality,  if  less  cunning,  less  brilliantly  cut, 
than  Booth's.  The  latter 's  always  seemed  to 
me  more  ingenious  than  real,  as  does  that  of 
Forbes-Eobertson.  It  absolutely  bristled  with 
points,  each  of  which  seemed  in  itself  absolutely 
sound  and  full  of  illumination  as  it  was  pre- 
sented, but  which  could  not,  when  assembled,  be 
made  to  harmonize.  Physically  it  was  a  realiza- 
tion of  the  traditionally  ideal  Hamlet — dignified, 
courteous,  meditative,  and  deeply  sympathetic. 
In  carriage  and  address  it  was  superfine.  In  the 
talk  to  the  players,  the  encounter  with  Eosen- 
crantz  and  Guildenstern,  in  the  quizzical  chat 
with  the  grave-diggers,  the  manner — whether  of 
friendly  condescension,  shrewd  reproof,  or  the 
cynically  humorous — was  always  princely;  grave, 
deliberate,  and  delicately  apt. 

It  would  be  unreasonable  to  ask  for  a  more 
satisfying  exposition  of  these  passages.  The 
reading  of  the  philosophic  soliloquies — the  "To 

183 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

be  or  not  to  be"  and  "What  a  piece  of  work," 
for  instance — illuminated  the  beauty  and  the  sig- 
nificance of  the  lines  with  the  fullest  radiance, 
while  the  delivery  of  "Oh,  that  this  too,  too 
solid  flesh,  etc."  was  most  moving  in  its  pathetic 
despair.  The  whole  business  of  the  play  scene 
was  charged  with  a  tragic,  or  rather  melo- 
dramatic, intensity  that  made  it  extraordinarily 
effective,  while  the  fiery  passion  thrown  into  the 
inquiry,  "Is  it  the  king?"  after  the  killing  of 
Polonius,  was  electrical.  All  these  individual 
episodes,  and  others — the  renunciation  scene  with 
Ophelia,  the  ranting  outburst  at  her  grave,  etc. — 
were  enacted  with  the  keenest  comprehension  and 
ample  power  of  execution,  but  yet  exhibited 
radical  discrepancies  of  character  that  in- 
terfered with  absolute  illusion.  It  was,  to  my 
mind,  a  mosaic  of  precious  but  ill-adjusted  gems 
rather  than  a  perfect  jewel. 

In  characters  of  heroic  proportions,  such  as 
Macbeth,  Othello,  and  Lear,  Edwin  Booth  was 
barred  from  the  supreme  heights  of  illusion  by 
physical  limitations.  He  had  a  firm  intellectual 
grasp  of  them,  he  had  imagination  and  an 
abundance  of  nervous  energy  and  intensity,  but 
in  the  great  crises  of  emotion  lacked  massiveness 
and  grandeur.  In  these  respects  he  was  not  the 
equal  of  Forrest,  E.  L.  Davenport,  or  John  McCul- 

184 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

lough,  although  superior  to  them  in  many  others. 
Of  the  parts  specified,  he  was  most  successful,  per- 
haps, in  Lear.  This  was  a  notably  fine  embodi- 
ment, dignified,  picturesque,  fiery,  ingenious,  and 
deeply  pathetic  in  its  forlorn  misery.  Oratori- 
cally  it  was  often  superb.  The  actor's  perception 
was  seldom,  if  ever,  at  fault,  but  he  was  unable  to 
give  full  expression  to  his  own  ideal.  He  de- 
picted a  wreck,  but  failed  to  indicate  the  colossal 
proportions  of  the  original  edifice.  But  his  act- 
ing, in  design  and  execution,  was  of  a  very  high 
order. 

In  the  opening  scenes  his  whole  demeanor  was 
venerable  and  royal.  In  imprecation  he  was 
torrential  and  intense,  but  not  terrible.  He  ex- 
cited more  pity  for  himself  than  fear  for  his 
daughters.  He  could  not,  like  Salvini,  assume 
the  part  of  a  Jove  launching  thunderbolts.  His 
passion  quivered  with  intensity,  but  was  not  over- 
powering. It  was  as  the  poor,  crazed  old  wan- 
derer, with  the  rags  of  his  majesty  still  clinging 
around  him,  in  the  scenes  with  Kent,  Edgar,  and 
the  Fool,  that  he  was  most  vital  and  poignant. 
His  signification  of  an  intellect  shattered  but 
not  entirely  destroyed,  with  its  recurrent  gleams 
of  wisdom,  authority,  wistful  humor,  and  venge- 
ful rage,  was  wonderfully  adroit  and  natural. 
His  recognition  of  Cordelia,  on  his  awakening 

185 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

from  madness,  was  one  of  the  gems  of  his  per- 
formance, a  little  masterpiece  of  natural  pathos. 

The  torments  and  rage  of  Othello  were  beyond 
him,  but  in  the  earlier  acts  of  the  tragedy  he 
was  admirable,  if  never  great.  He  was  a  dig- 
nified, authoritative  soldier,  simple,  unsuspicious, 
and  loving.  His  love  for  Desdemona  was  ardent, 
but  tenderly  respectful.  His  address  to  the 
Senate  was  a  model  of  frank,  manly,  modest,  and 
persuasive  utterance.  The  scene  of  Cassio's  dis- 
missal he  carried  through  in  exactly  the  right 
spirit  of  angry  military  promptitude  and  out- 
raged friendship.  And  he  was  wholly  successful 
— and  artistically  subtle — in  the  earlier  manifes- 
tations of  the  growing  jealousy  fostered  by  the 
cunning  devilry  of  lago.  But  his  portrayal  of 
the  ensuing  paroxysms  of  rage  and  anguish  were 
deficient  in  power  and  sincerity.  He  could  only 
suggest  the  moral  and  spiritual  demoralization 
of  which  he  was  the  victim.  The  murder,  of 
course,  he  enacted  in  the  sacrificial  mood,  and  he 
did  it  impressively,  with  a  fine  admixture  of 
compassionate  tenderness  and  inexorable,  fatal- 
istic resolution.  In  the  closing  incidents,  notably 
in  his  heartbroken  cry  of  "Fool,  fool,  fool!"  he 
played  with  fine  effect. 

Nor  did  he  rise  to  any  lofty  heights  in  Mac- 
beth, of  which  his  impersonation  was  intellectual 

186 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

but  not  inspired.  His  murderous  Thane  satisfied 
neither  the  eye  nor  the  imagination.  It  was  only 
in  the  portrayal  of  the  superstitious  horror  that 
" distils  a  man  almost  to  jelly"  that  he  was 
vividly  realistic.  But  even  then  his  slight  and 
quivering  form  betokened  an  abject  cowardice 
incompatible  with  the  character.  His  Macbeth 
was  essentially  a  weak  man,  the  tool  rather  than 
the  accomplice  of  his  wife,  who  went  to  the  mur- 
der of  Duncan  rather  as  an  assassin  under  com- 
pulsion than  as  a  man  whose  ambition  dominated 
his  conscience,  and  whose  waning  scruples  had 
been  exorcised  by  a  will  more  single  than  his 
own.  In  the  dagger  scene  he  was  more  pic- 
turesque and  melodramatic  than  tragic. 

His  best  work  was  done  after  the  murder.  The 
remorse  in  his  delivery  of  the  lines  on  the  "  mur- 
dered sleep"  and  his  despairing  cry,  "Wake 
Duncan  with  thy  knocking,"  was  acute.  He 
made,  too,  a  splendidly  effective,  pathetic,  and 
poetic  point  after  the  banquet  scene,  when  he 
slowly  took  the  coronet  from  his  head  and.  sat 
gazing  at  it  with  a  look  of  unutterable  wretched- 
ness and  despair.  The  weaker  elements  of  the 
character  he  threw  into  strong  relief,  the  higher 
imaginative  side  he  blurred. 

His  Richard  II.  must  be  accounted  among  his 
most  notable  artistic  achievements,  but  when  I 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

saw  him  in  the  part  he  played  in  a  miserably 
mangled  version  of  the  piece  with  the  support 
of  Augustin  Daly's  company,  which  was  hope- 
lessly inadequate  to  the  task.  Scarcely  enough 
of  the  text  was  left  to  make  the  chronicle  even 
decently  coherent  or  intelligible,  the  necessary 
personages  being  reduced  to  the  condition  of 
mere  ' '  feeders ' '  to  Mr.  Booth,  who  was  the  whole 
show.  Not  until  the  third  act  did  he  have  much 
chance,  but  from  then  on  his  embodiment — it 
was  a  genuine  embodiment — of  the  weak,  fallen, 
wilful,  haughty,  and  passionate  King  was  re- 
markably subtle,  finished,  and  striking.  The  part 
lay  wholly  within  his  range.  His  reception  of 
Bolingbroke's  envoy  was  admirable  in  the  dig- 
nity born  of  despair.  When  bidden  to  descend 
to  the  "base  court"  to  meet  his  foe,  his  acting 
was  most  powerful.  The  biting  sarcasm  of  his 
speech  contrasted  strikingly  with  the  mock 
humility  of  his  bowed  form  and  the  anguish  in 
his  face,  and  throughout  the  ensuing  scene  with 
his  conqueror  he  vitalized  complex  emotions  with 
extraordinary  skill.  It  was  a  rare  demonstration 
of  histrionic  art  pursued  under  difficulties,  and 
of  the  insufficiency  of  modern  actors  in  old  plays. 
In  "The  Merchant  of  Venice"  Mr.  Booth  was 
seen  at  his  best.  He  acted  Shylock  often,  and 
elaborated  his  study  of  the  part  until  it  was  a 

188 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

perfect  picture,  finished  to  the  nails.  The  whole 
gamut  of  the  emotions  of  the  old  Jew  lay  within 
his  artistic  reach,  and  he  played  upon  them  with 
infinite  certainty  and  dexterity.  His  portrayal 
was  a  most  harmonious  blend  of  racial  prejudice 
and  hate,  insatiate  avarice,  dignity,  craft,  revenge- 
ful passion,  and  abject  defeat.  He  made  no 
pretence  of  elevating  it  with  any  touch  of 
patriarchal  or  romantic  nobility.  In  his  normal 
state  he  was  the  substantial  merchant,  staid, 
hard,  suspicious,  alert,  with  a  vein  of  cynical 
humor.  In  making  his  bargain  with  Antonio,  the 
ultimate  purpose  of  it  was  deftly  concealed  be- 
neath a  veil  of  slightly  transparent  banter.  His 
profession  of  amity  was  clearly  conventional,  but 
his  emphasis  was  grimly  jocose,  not  malicious, 
though  the  smile  on  his  face  was  crafty. 

The  ferocious  element  in  him  was  not  revealed 
until  the  street  scene,  in  which  his  exhibition  of 
mixed  emotions — wounded  avarice,  rage,  scorn, 
revengeful  hate,  and  domestic  grief — was  master- 
ful. His  "Let  him  look  to  his  bond!"  was  preg- 
nant with  concentrated  fury  and  savage  anticipa- 
tion. In  the  trial  scene  his  cool,  stony,  dogged 
inflexibility  was  of  most  deadly  omen.  His  "Till 
thou  canst  rail  the  seal  from  off  this  bond,"  was 
given  with  imperturbable  and  assured  insolence; 
his  "Is  that  the  law?"  carried  the  very  essence  of 

189 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

amazed  horror  and  incredulity.  In  his  collapse 
every  faculty  of  mind  and  body  seemed  paralyzed. 
He  spoke  in  broken  murmurs  like  a  man  in  a 
bad  dream.  It  was  a  complete  and  vital  inter- 
pretation. One  is  inclined  to  apply  to  it  the  cer- 
tificate given  to  old  Macklin's,  "This  is  the  Jew 
that  Shakespeare  drew." 

That  Booth  could  give  fine  expression  to  the 
nobler  attributes  of  humanity,  if  not  in  their 
highest  imaginative  development,  he  proved 
abundantly  by  his  Brutus  and  parts  of  his  Othello 
and  Hamlet,  but  it  is  nevertheless  a  fact  that  he 
was  most  triumphant  in  characters  containing  a 
baser  alloy.  His  alert  manner,  his  flashing  eyes, 
his  crisp,  somewhat  metallic  utterance,  his  capa- 
city for  fierce  passion,  his  general  suggestion  of 
an  agile  mentality,  constituted  a  most  valuable 
equipment  for  parts  in  which  the  intellectual  pre- 
dominated over  the  moral  or  the  sentimental. 

His  lago  has  always,  and  rightfully,  been  con- 
sidered one  of  his  masterpieces.  In  his  later 
years  it  became  a  trifle  stiff  and  labored,  but  in 
his  prime  it  was  the  incarnation  of  smooth,  eager, 
supple,  and  fathomless  devilry.  Entirely 
plausible,  with  no  hint  of  venomous  intrigue  ex- 
cept in  the  soliloquies,  it  somehow  seemed  to  be 
enveloped  in  an  aura  of  evil.  There  was  a  sug- 
gestion of  infernal  enjoyment  in  the  zest  with 

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SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

which  he  marked  each  progressive  step  in  the 
fabric  of  his  plot.  A  much  more  wary  and  less 
headstrong  man  than  Othello  might  have  been 
beguiled  by  his  apparent  honesty.  His  duplicity 
was  altogether  Machiavellian,  exactly  adapted  to 
time  and  circumstance.  His  most  pernicious  lies 
to  Othello — concerning  Cassio's  dream  and  the 
handkerchief,  for  instance — he  administered  in 
the  most  deceptive  form,  that  of  an  involuntary 
confidence.  Only  at  the  last,  when,  bound,  bleed- 
ing, and  doomed  to  torture,  he  said,  "  Demand  me 
nothing:  what  you  know,  you  know.  Hereafter 
will  I  never  more  speak  word,"  with  a  horrible 
gritting  of  clenched  teeth,  did  he  reveal  himself, 
to  his  intimates,  the  callous  and  malignant  fiend. 
It  was  a  brilliant  achievement,  and  some  of 
its  qualities  could  be  traced  in  his  Eichard  III, 
by  all  odds  the  best  of  his  time,  and  the  only  one 
that  reflected  the  intellectual  power  which  that 
able  but  unscrupulous  monarch  undoubtedly  pos- 
sessed. He  played  it,  in  the  theater  that  was  for- 
merly his  own,  in  the  condensed  Shakespearean 
play — not  the  Gibber  abomination — with  Mrs. 
Waller  as  Queen  Margaret  and  a  fairly  compe- 
tent cast.  In  the  earlier  acts  his  performance 
was  most  admirable.  He  really  did  personify  a 
man  with  the  brains  to  conceive  and  the  audacity 
to  carry  out  the  monstrous  policies  ascribed  to 

191 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

him.  Lightning  perception,  prompt  resolve, 
cynical  hypocrisy,  remorseless  ambition,  and  in- 
domitable will  were  all  denoted  in  his  conception. 
In  the  scenes  with  Lady  Anne,  Buckingham,  and 
Clarence,  and  in  the  council  chamber,  the  many- 
sided  character  and  dangerous  nature  of  the  man 
were  indicated  with  rare  vividness  and  skill.  But 
in  the  later  acts  the  impersonation  degenerated 
into  somewhat  robustious  melodrama.  As  a 
whole  it  was  a  memorable  piece  of  acting.  In 
recent  days  there  has  been  nothing  remotely  com- 
parable with  it,  except  the  first  act  of  Irving 's 
Gloster. 

Curiously  enough,  Booth  made  some  of  his 
most  imposing  emotional  displays  in  romantic  or 
eccentric  parts  of  second-rate  caliber.  His  Riche- 
lieu, in  Lord  Lytton's  play,  was,  in  spite  of  its 
inherent  theatricality,  a  masterpiece  of  technical 
execution — full  of  dry  humor,  patriotic  exalta- 
tion, paternal  tenderness,  craft,  and  mental 
vigor — and  in  the  defiance  of  Baradas,  the 
"awful  circle"  speech,  rose  to  a  height  of  dra- 
matic passion  that  was  really  magnificent.  He 
was  equally  successful  in  that  tricky,  romantic 
drama  of  Tom  Taylor,  "The  Fool's  Kevenge" 
("Rigoletto"),  revelling  in  the  part  of  the  de- 
formed, sarcastic,  and  revengeful  jester,  Ber- 
tuccio,  whom  he  endowed  with  bitter,  agile,  and 

192 


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SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

malignant  mockery.  It  is  a  showy  but  not  a 
highly  imaginative  or  difficult  character,  but  in 
the  scene  in  which,  as  a  cruelly  deluded  suppli- 
cant, he  batters  at  the  door  behind  which  are  the 
ravishers  to  whom  he  has  unwillingly  betrayed 
his  own  daughter,  he  invested  it  with  a  tragic 
power  and  eloquence,  rising  to  a  perfect  frenzy 
of  agonized  and  pitiful  fury  and  despair. 

He  rose  again  to  a  wonderful  pitch  of  baffled 
wrath  as  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  in  the  last  scene 
where  the  defeated  schemer  becomes  the  prey  of 
his  own  savage  passions,  and  gave  an  extraor- 
dinary melodramatic  display  as  Sir  Edmund 
Mortimer  in  the  now  virtually  forgotten  play, 
"The  Iron  Chest." 

He  was  a  well-graced  actor,  if  ever  there  was 
one,  and  by  his  personal  achievement  he  fairly 
won  the  distinguished  place  which  he  will  always 
occupy  in  the  annals  of  the  American  stage.  But 
for  the  literary  and  artistic  theater  itself,  for 
the  preservation  or  elevation  of  the  art  of  which 
he  was  so  able  a  professor,  he  did  little  or  noth- 
ing. He  was  content,  during  the  greater  part  of 
his  career,  to  accept  and  profit  by  the  conditions 
which  were  undermining  and  ruining  it.  Able  to 
fill  theaters  by  his  unassisted  genius  and  prestige, 
he  acquiesced  in  a  system  devised  to  fill  the 
pockets  of  stars  and  managers,  and  habitually 

193 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

acted  with  scratch  companies  of  incompetent  and 
untrained  players,  histrionic  scarecrows.  In  this 
way  he  helped  to  discredit  the  masterpiece  in 
which  he  shone.  He  left  no  disciples,  no  suc- 
cessor to  take  up  his  mantle  when  he  discarded 
it.  "When  he  made  his  final  bow  the  curtain — so 
far  as  the  American  stage  was  concerned — fell 
also  upon  the  legitimate  drama.  Whether  it  is  to 
be  raised  again  time  will  show. 

Even  popular  actors  are  sometimes  conscious 
of  their  own  limitations.  I  am  able  to  give  an 
authentic  anecdote  in  support  of  this  assertion. 
It  was  recalled  to  my  memory  by  the  accidental 
discovery  of  a  portrait  of  E.  A.  Sothern,  who  in 
his  earlier  days  firmly  believed  that  he  was 
possessed  of  tragic  genius.  Bitter  experience 
taught  him  that  he  was  mistaken,  and  in  time 
he  could  laugh  good-humoredly  over  his  juvenile 
delusion.  He  and  Edwin  Booth  were  great 
friends.  One  morning,  in  the  eighties,  they  were 
discussing  old  memories  in  Sothern 's  rooms  in 
the  Gramercy  Park  Hotel.  As  Booth  left  I  en- 
tered and  Sothern  repeated  to  me  some  of  their 
conversation.  "We  were  talking,"  he  said, 
"among  other  things,  of  Will  Stewart,  the  old 
dramatic  critic,  and  his  capacity  for  apt  and  cut- 
ting definition.  By  way  of  illustration  I  quoted 
his  remark  about  my  Claude  Melnotte,  that  it 

194 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

'exhibited  all  the  qualities  of  a  poker  except  its 
occasional  warmth. '  I  suppose, ' '  I  added, ' '  that  my 
performance  was  about  as  bad  as  anything  ever 
seen  upon  the  stage.  Ned  chuckled  quietly  for 
a  minute  and  then,  with  a  quizzical  smile,  said, 
'You  never  saw  my  Borneo,  did  you?'  "  In- 
veterate joker  as  I  knew  him  to  be,  Sothern's 
manner  convinced  me  that  he  was  reporting  the 
incident  in  good  faith.  Some  time  after  this  he 
and  "Billy"  Florence,  a  kindred  spirit,  volun- 
teered to  play  Othello  and  lago  at  a  benefit  per- 
formance and  disappointed  a  huge  and  expectant 
audience  by  acting  with  perfect  seriousness  and, 
of  course,  complete  incompetence.  They  found 
abundant  personal  satisfaction,  doubtless,  in  the 
fact  that  they  had  successfully  sold  both  the 
tickets  and  the  spectators. 


195 


XIV 

CHARLOTTE  CUSHMAN,  HELENA  MODJESKA, 
AND  BERNHARDT 

THE  name  of  Charlotte  Cushman  must  not  be 
omitted  from  any  record,  however  desultory,  of 
the  American  stage  in  the  closing  years  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  but  I  only  saw  her,  in  1874, 
in  three  characters,  Queen  Katherine,  Lady  Mac- 
beth, and  Meg  Merrilies — and  I  can  not,  there- 
fore, pretend  to  any  authoritative  analysis  of 
her  art.  These  were  among  her  most  popular 
impersonations,  and  even  in  her  decline  she  mani- 
fested extraordinary  powers  in  them.  When  in 
the  full  possession  of  her  vigor  and  fire  she 
doubtless  was  very  great.  She  had  played 
almost  everything  in  her  time,  was  expert  in 
every  mystery  of  stage  device,  and,  even  in  age, 
had  an  almost  masculine  force.  Her  speaking 
voice  was  abnormally  deep,  but  flexible.  It  could 
utter  melting  notes  or  vibrate  harshly  with 
terrible  passion. 

Few  women  have  been  so  successful  in  male 
characters  as  she  was  in  earlier  days.  She  made 

196 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

a  genuine  success  as  Eomeo  and  enacted  Wolsey 
•without  incurring,  ridicule.  In  melodrama  she 
could  be  terrible.  In  other  words,  she  was  an  old- 
school  actress,  who  excelled  in  many  parts  and 
was  competent  in  nearly  all.  There  was  a  cer- 
tain degree  of  "staginess" — at  any  rate  in  her  late 
maturity — about  her  acting,  which  made  fre- 
quent revelations  of  calculated  mechanism.  She 
was  old-fashioned,  deliberate,  and  certain.  There 
never  was  the  least  doubt  of  the  resonant  and 
efficient  quality  of  the  stroke  when  she  made  it. 
Artful  pauses — which  never  implied  hesitancy — 
were  followed  by  swift,  bold,  and  perfect  execu- 
tion. Each  action  was  inspired  and  governed  by 
an  unfaltering  intelligence. 

Her  passions  were  heroic,  her  pathos  more 
profound  than  delicate.  She  painted  nearly 
everything  with  unmixed  colors.  Her  designs 
were  bold  rather  than  subtle.  Her  Katherine, 
owing  nothing  to  personal  charm  or  splendor  of 
habiliments,  was  a  superb  presentment  of  out- 
raged majesty,  conscious  of  humiliation,  but  regal 
in  every  look  and  gesture,  even  as  a  supplicant. 
She  completely  dominated  the  stage  in  the  court 
scene.  In  addressing  the  King  she  evinced  re- 
spect, with  an  occasional  note  of  reproachful 
tenderness,  without  any  loss  of  dignity  or  any  in- 
timation of  a  sense  of  being  on  her  defense.  In 

197 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

the  allusion  to  her  children  her  voice  quavered 
with  an  apparently  unmasterable  emotion.  Her 
challenge  to  Wolsey,  "Lord  Cardinal,  to  yon  I 
speak,"  rang  with  an  imperial  disdain. 

To  the  sarcasm  in  her  subsequent  interview 
with  the  two  cardinal  legates  she  imparted 
resplendent  emphasis.  The  fine  lines  embodying 
her  summary  of  Wolsey  were  beautifully  de- 
claimed. In  the  death  scene,  the  restlessness  and 
querulousness  of  sickness  and  suffering  were  in- 
terpreted with  minute  and  startling  fidelity,  but 
she  never  forgot  that  she  was  a  dying  queen,  and 
her  actual  dissolution,  though  closely  realistic, 
was  purely  pathetic.  The  whole  embodiment  was 
a  piece  of  theatrical  artistry  which  could  not  be 
duplicated  anywhere  on  the  English-speaking 
stage  to-day.  Nor,  if  she  were  yet  alive,  could 
she  find  such  competent  support — it  was  not 
brilliant — as  was  supplied  to  her  by  the  Wolsey 
of  George  Vandenhoff  or  the  King  of  John  Jack. 

I  do  not  believe  that  her  conception  of  Lady 
Macbeth  was  the  right  one,  but  the  power  with 
which  she  realized  it  compelled  admiration  and 
wonder.  It  was  melodrama  "in  excelsis." 
Founded  upon  the  pattern  left  by  Mrs.  Siddons — 
which,  doubtless,  has  lost  many  of  its  true  out- 
lines in  the  course  of  several  generations  of  stage 
reproduction — it  exhibited  no  characteristic  trait 

198 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

of  feminine  nature  except  its  occasional  physical 
weakness.  This  Lady  Macbeth  was  a  splendid 
virago,  more  than  masculine  in  ambition,  courage, 
and  will,  more  bloody,  bold,  and  resolute  than  she 
wished  her  husband  to  be.  She  was  the  source 
and  mainspring  of  the  whole  tragedy. 

She  was  inhuman,  terrible,  incredible,  and 
horribly  fascinating.  She  resolved  upon  the 
murder  of  Duncan  at  the  moment  she  heard  of 
the  prediction  of  the  witches,  and  thereafter  pro- 
ceeded toward  it  without  hesitation  or  qualm. 
Her  whole  sanguinary  purpose  was  revealed  in 
the  devilish  emphasis  of  her  "And  when  goes 
hence?"  Pity  and  remorse  were  unknown  to 
her.  She  was  clearly  capable,  as  she  declared,  of 
taking  children  from  her  breast  and  dashing 
out  their  brains.  After  the  murder  she  exhibited 
a  momentary  feminine  faintness  at  the  thought 
of  looking  upon  the  victims,  but  promptly  rallied, 
went  about  her  task  with  composed  resolution, 
and  was  calmly  scornful  when  she  showed  her 
husband  that  her  hands  were  of  the  color  of  his. 
And  this  conception  she  maintained  stedfastly  in 
every  changing  scene.  Even  in  her  somnam- 
bulism— a  marvel  of  technical  detail — the  pathetic 
was  absent.  She  was  tormented  by  harrowing 
anxiety  and  dread,  but  not  by  remorse. 

There  was  small  scope  for  her  dramatic  genius, 

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SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

of  course,  in  such  a  part  as  Meg  Merrilies,  which, 
in  the  stage  version^  retains  little  of  the  romantic 
distinction  it  possesses  in  the  imaginative  pages 
of  Walter  Scott.  But  she  invested  it  with  a  weird 
mysticism,  rude  dignity,  and  tempestuous  pas- 
sion. Her  performance  was  more  valuable 
theatrically  than  important  artistically.  She 
created  a  powerful  effect  in  her  recognition  of 
Harry  Bertram,  gave  to  the  fortune-telling  scene 
mystical  significance  and  pathos,  and  her  de- 
clamatory power  was  employed  with  rousing  effect 
in  the  denunciation  of  Dick  Hatteraick.  The 
death  was  portrayed  with  solemn  and  pathetic 
realism.  She  bade  farewell  to  the  New  York 
stage  as  Lady  Macbeth,  and  the  most  dis- 
tinguished men  in  the  community,  representing 
art,  commerce,  letters,  and  the  learned  profes- 
sions, assembled  to  do  her  honor. 

It  was  in  December,  1877,  that  Helena  Mod- 
jeska,  the  Polish  actress,  made  her  first  appear- 
ance upon  the  New  York  stage,  after  several 
brilliant  engagements  in  the  West.  She  labored 
under  many  disadvantages.  She  was  unknown, 
she  was  a  foreigner,  she  did  not  speak  English 
well,  and  her  art  had  a  daintiness  that  appealed 
to  the  connoisseur  rather  than  the  mass;  but 
it  was  not  long  before  her  genius  won  for  her  a 
prominent  place  among  American  stars. 

200 


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SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

She  was  one  of  the  really  great  actresses  of 
her  era.  In  my  own  mind  I  have  always  ranked 
her  very  little,  if  any,  below  Sarah  Bernhardt. 
The  latter,  unquestionably — being  physically  far 
more  powerful  than  her  Polish  rival,  speaking 
in  her  own  tongue,  and  possessing  an  incompar- 
able voice — could  rise  upon  special  occasions,  as 
in  "Phedre,"  to  peaks  of  tragic  expression  to 
which  Modjeska  could  not  attain;  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  Modjeska,  great  in  classic  tragedy, 
like  Bernhardt  (if  not  altogether  so  great),  was 
her  equal  in  the  modern  social  emotional  drama, 
while  in  romantic  poetic  comedy  she  was  peerless 
in  characters  entirely  outside  the  sphere  of 
Sarah's  comprehension  or  talents. 

It  is  impossible,  for  instance,  to  think  of  the 
latter  as  Viola  or  Eosalind,  nor  could  she  com- 
prehend Ophelia  or  Juliet  in  their  entireties.  The 
exhibitions  which  the  illustrious  Frenchwoman 
gave  in  her  later  years  in  "Hamlet"  and 
"L'Aiglon,"  and  those  melodramatic  falsities 
specially  designed  for  the  display  of  her  his- 
trionic specialties  by  that  master  craftsman, 
Sardou,  are  not,  I  think,  to  be  taken  into  con- 
sideration in  any  serious  estimate  of  her  true 
genius.  They  were  often  wonderful  in  their  way, 
showed  intermittently  flashes  of  the  rare,  delicate 
inspirations  of  the  earlier  Sarah,  but  in  the  main 

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SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

were  marred  by  manifest  artifice  and  physical 
strain.  Amazing  in  their  vigor,  they  contributed 
to  notoriety  rather  than  fame.  These  things 
Modjeska  could  not  have  done;  but  in  the  legiti- 
mate realm  of  artistic  and  imaginative  his- 
trionism  her  range  was,  I  think,  the  wider. 

It  was  Stephen  Fiske  who  first  introduced  her 
to  the  New  York  public,  in  "Adrienne  Le- 
couvreur."  Her  Adrienne  became  a  more  highly 
colored  and  finished  embodiment  afterward,  but 
from  the  first  it  carried  a  peculiar  charm  of  girl- 
ish innocence,  tenderness,  and  freshness,  underly- 
ing the  sophistication  of  the  actress.  Possibly 
her  innocence  was  less  cunning  than  the  dove-like 
meekness  which  Bernhardt  knew  so  well  how  to 
assume,  but  it  had  more  in  it  of  the  simplicity 
of  nature.  She  could  not  recite  "The  Two 
Pigeons"  with  the  exquisite  musical  vocalism  of 
the  Frenchwoman,  nor  could  she  emulate  the 
blasting  fire  and  scorn  with  which  Sarah  made 
so  powerful  an  effect  in  the  clash  with  the 
Duchesse  de  Bouillon,  but,  with  the  truest  artistic 
intuition,  she  husbanded  her  emotional  resources 
in  the  early  acts,  constantly  suggesting,  however, 
the  glowing  sincerity  of  her  hero  worship  for 
Saxe,  and  reserving  all  her  energies  for  the 
delirium  and  despair  of  the  concluding  scenes, 
which  she  portrayed  with  ample  power  and  most 

202 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

affecting    pathos.     It   was    a    lovely,    intensely 
sympathetic,  and  brilliant  impersonation. 

In  her  Canaille,  again — a  flagrantly  artificial, 
and  theatrical,  and  specious  character,  whose 
falsity  is  gross  and  palpable — she  exhibited  an 
artistry  which  sometimes  gave  it  an  aspect  of 
plausibility.  She  played  it  with  an  abandon- 
ment which  was  at  once  reckless  and  refined. 
Without  disguising  the  traits  of  her  profession 
— her  coquetry,  though  never  vulgar,  was  bold, 
even  had  touches  of  audacity — she  contrived  to 
suggest  that  she  was  acting  a  part  dictated  by 
circumstances  rather  than  inclination,  and  wore 
a  yoke  which,  if  she  had  learned  to  bear  it 
easily,  yet  sometimes  galled.  She  was  not  rude, 
as  many  Camilles  are,  even  to  De  Varville.  She 
tolerated  him  as  a  convenient  but  somewhat  irk- 
some necessity.  From  Armand,  at  first,  though 
clearly  attracted  to  him,  she  seemed  to  shrink, 
as  from  a  forbidden  pleasure  which  she  coveted 
but  dare  not  entertain.  It  was  a  subtle  touch, 
and  it  paved  the  way  for  her  gradual  transforma- 
tion from  the  professional  siren  to  the  woman, 
freed  from  the  fetters  that  had  bound  her,  and  re- 
endowed  with  her  original  virtues  and  the  capa- 
city for  first  love.  Miracles  of  that  kind  are  not 
worked  nowadays,  but  she  very  nearly  made  this 
one  credible. 

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SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Her  reformed  Camille,  radiant  with  ecstatic 
happiness  and  love,  was  a  fascinating  creature. 
In  the  interview  with  old  Duval,  as  she  gradually 
comprehended  the  object  of  his  visit,  the  very 
blood  seemed  to  freeze  in  her  veins.  The  extrem- 
ity of  dumb  misery  has  never  been  more 
pathetically  depicted.  Eestrained  sobs  seemed 
to  tear  her  soul.  But  here  she  was  a  strong 
woman,  not  a  weak  one.  The  spirit  which  she 
embodied  was  one  of  heroically  unselfish  self- 
sacrifice  for  love's  sweet  sake,  and  she  suggested 
the  nobility  of  it,  as  well  as  the  pain.  In  making 
her  farewell  from  Armand,  the  heart-break  in 
her  hysterical  laughter  drew  tears  from  eyes 
unused  to  the  melting  mood.  Her  impersonation, 
though  very  different  from  those  of  Clara  Morris, 
Eleanora  Duse,  or  Sarah  Bernhardt,  would  stand 
the  test  of  comparison  with  any  one  of  them. 

Her  broken  English,  her  lack  of  youthful  charm 
and  of  such  physical  power  as  was  exhibited  by 
Adelaide  Neilson,  prevented  her  Juliet  from 
achieving  a  great  popular  success.  In  some  of 
the  stormier  passages  she  was  barely  intelligible. 
But  artistically  her  impersonation  was  a  delight ; 
graceful,  girlish  (in  everything  but  feature), 
poetic,  ardent,  and,  at  the  last,  entirely  tragic. 
It  was  a  fine,  glowing,  symmetrical  interpreta- 
tion of  the  text  and  spirit  of  the  poet,  and  ex- 

204 


co 
W 


<  o 

£  - 

3  « 

W 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

quisitely  refined  and  delicate.  She  met  Eomeo 
in  the  balcony  scene  with  the  simplicity  of  a  love 
too  noble  and  too  innocent  to  affect  concealment 
or  fear  misinterpretation.  In  gesture  and  atti- 
tude she  was  beautifully  picturesque  and  elo- 
quent. This  Juliet  had  dignity  without  hauteur, 
affection  without  fussiness,  and  tenderness  with- 
out sentimentality.  In  the  potion  scene  she  was 
often  indistinct,  but  her  frenzy  was  thrilling,  and 
as  she  flung  herself  into  a  chair,  after  her  vision 
of  the  charnel  house,  and  sat  there,  statue-like, 
with  blanched  face  and  staring  eyes,  her  simula- 
tion of  horror  was  so  vivid  that  elocutionary  de- 
fects were  forgotten.  The  whole  performance 
was  a  delicious  bit  of  romantic  and  poetic  ideali- 
zation. 

Her  Eosalind — in  delicate  imagination  and 
poetic  quality — was  by  all  odds  the  best  that  it 
has  ever  been  my  fortune  to  see.  Undoubtedly 
it  failed  to  satisfy  all  the  traditions  of  the  Eng- 
lish theater.  It  lacked  a  certain  robustness  of 
person  and  humor;  the  temperament,  perhaps, 
was  a  trifle  too  mercurial  for  the  quiet  air  of 
Arden;  the  type  and  tongue  were  not  British. 
But  it  was  arch,  tender,  elegant,  intellectual, 
highly  bred,  and  womanly,  perfectly  consistent, 
and  executed  with  a  technical  perfection  possible 
only  to  the  complete  artist.  Her  byplay  in  the 

205 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

love  scenes  with  Orlando  was  admirable,  wholly 
appropriate,  and  spontaneous.  There  was  the 
highest  skill  in  the  manner  in  which  she  betrayed 
to  the  audience  only  the  palpitating  emotions  of 
the  woman,  while  presenting  to  Orlando  nothing 
but  the  waywardness  of  a  fanciful  boy.  The 
double  simulation  was  maintained  with  an  in- 
errant  surety.  The  only  actress  in  modern 
times  who  might  have  equalled  or  excelled  her  in 
the  character  was  Ellen  Terry,  and  she,  alas! 
was  never  permitted  to  assume  it.  It  should  be 
added  that  Modjeska,  after  a  lapse  of  four  years, 
was  far  more  practised  in  the  English  speech 
than  when  she  first  played  Juliet.  Her  foreign 
accent  was,  in  some  respects,  a  drawback,  be- 
yond question,  but  it  also  added  a  piquant  zest 
to  her  sprightly  utterances  and,  in  so  fanciful  a 
piece,  ruined  no  illusion. 

Ellen  Terry's  Viola,  in  "Twelfth  Night,"  we 
have  seen,  and  Modjeska 's,  if  not  superior  to  it, 
was  in  all  respects  its  equal,  except,  of  course,  in 
the  pronunciation  of  the  text.  If  the  English 
woman  had  the  more  bewitching  personality, 
Modjeska  had  the  stronger  creative  and 
imaginative  faculty.  Her  Bosalind,  Viola,  and 
her  Portia  (which  came  later)  were  all  distinct 
personalities.  Her  Viola  was  presented  amid 
most  discouraging  accessories  of  shabby  scenery 

206 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

and  indifferent  actors.  But  she  brought  illusion 
with  her.  Her  simulation  of  cold,  fatigue,  and 
fear  lent  realism  to  a  sea-coast  which  looked  like 
anything  else  in  the  world.  She  was  charming 
in  her  scenes  with  Orsino  and  Olivia,  and  right- 
fully played  the  duel  scene  with  Sir  Andrew  in 
the  spirit  of  high  comedy  instead  of  in  the  mood 
of  rollicking  burlesque  in  which  most  actresses 
of  the  part  indulge.  She  acted  as  a  timid  but 
not  spiritless  woman,  fearful  of  betraying  her 
sex,  would  be  likely  to  act  in  such  circumstances. 
In  technical  skill  Modjeska  was  surpassed  by  no 
actress  of  her  day.  In  intellectual  grasp,  clear- 
ness of  conception,  distinction  of  manner,  and 
skill  in  portraying  the  more  delicate  graces  and 
traits  of  feminine  nature,  she  excelled  all  but 
one  or  two  of  them. ' 


207 


XV 


FANNY  JANAUSCHEK.  WHO  ENDED  IN  TRIBU- 
LATIONS, AND  MARY  ANDERSON,  WHO 
NEVER  KNEW  ANYTHING  BUT 
POPULAR  ADORATION 

IN  the  list  of  actresses  of  foreign  association 
who  became  permanently  associated  with  the  New 
York  stage,  the  name  of  Fanny  Janauschek  must 
not  be  forgotten.  Her  story  was  a  sad  one.  After 
enjoying  the  sweets  of  fame  and  prosperity  for 
many  seasons,  she  fell  upon  evil  days,  through 
no  fault  of  her  own,  and  was  doomed  to  taste  the 
bitterness  of  popular  neglect  and  poverty  in  her 
old  age. 

She  was  numbered  among  the  greatest  tragic 
actresses  of  Europe  when  she  first  visited  Amer- 
ica nearly  fifty  years  ago,  and  was  reputed  to 
have  the  finest  collection  of  presentation  jewels — 
tributes  of  princes  and  potentates  to  her  genius 
— in  the  possession  of  any  stage  artist.  That 
may  or  may  not  have  been  true,  but  that  she  her- 
self was  an  artistic  jewel  of  great  brilliancy  and 
worth  is  beyond  all  peradventure.  It  was  in  char- 
acters of  the  heroic  type  that  her  artistic  powers, 

208 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

backed  by  superb  physical  qualifications,  were 
displayed  to  their  fullest  advantage. 

Her  face  was  strong  and  expressive,  her  voice 
deep,  full,  and  vibrant,  her  port  majestic,  and 
her  vigor  great.  Of  the  technique  of  her  art  she 
was  a  perfect  mistress,  and  her  versatility  was 
remarkable  in  all  characters  compounded  of 
strong  intellectual  or  emotional  elements.  Neither 
by  temperament  nor  disposition  was  she  fitted 
for  the  softer,  seductive  heroines  of  modern 
social  comedy. 

It  was  in  great  dramas  that  she  shone,  and 
when  they  disappeared  from  the  stage  her  oc- 
cupation, like  Othello's,  was  gone.  After  holding 
a  high  seat  among  the  queens  of  tragedy,  she 
was,  in  her  declining  years,  reduced  to  the  neces- 
sity— as  a  mere  means  of  livelihood — of  appear- 
ing in  the  cheaper  kinds  of  melodrama,  which 
she  often  made  extraordinarily  effective  by  her 
still  undimmed  dramatic  genius.  No  matter  what 
the  nature  of  her  surroundings,  she  was  a  grand 
artist  to  the  last,  but  the  spectacle  of  her  great 
abilities  waisted  on  unworthy  purpose  was  a 
melancholy  one. 

She  made  her  first  appearance  on  the  stage  of 
this  country  in  the  character  of  the  mythical 
Brunhilde — in  which  she  had  long  been  famous 
in  Europe — acting  in  German.  Among  her  com- 

209 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

patriots  in  New  York  and  elsewhere  she  aroused 
the  greatest  enthusiasm,  but  in  those  days  Ger- 
man audiences  were  smaller  than  they  are  now. 
So  she  set  to  work  to  study  English,  and  in  course 
of  time  became  a  full-fledged  American  actress, 
speaking  English  with  a  strong  guttural  accent, 
indeed,  but  with  sufficient  clearness  and  admirable 
emphasis. 

Of  all  her  parts,  it  was  in  Brunhilde,  perhaps, 
that  she  found  the  widest  scope  for  her  powers. 
She  endowed  it  with  a  majestic  dignity  and 
thoroughly  heroic  passion.  Her  imperious  car- 
riage, fiery  declamation,  and  noble  gesture  con- 
tributed to  a  most  imposing  and  picturesque 
effect.  By  sheer  force  of  the  finest  romantic 
acting  she  realized  the  grandeur  of  the  mythical 
personage.  Her  greatest  triumph  was  won  in 
the  third  act,  in  the  scene  with  Siegfried  where, 
in  the  hope  of  kindling  in  him  a  responsive  passion, 
she  recalls  to  his  memory  the  day  when  he  slew 
the  dragon.  She  vitalized  the  situation  by  her 
intense  enthusiasm.  She  seemed  inspired,  en- 
tranced ;  love  glowed  in  every  glance  of  her  eyes, 
thrilled  in  each  note  of  her  voice.  The  change 
wrought  in  her  by  the  laughing  denial  of  Siegfried 
that  he  had  ever  loved  her  was  wonderfully 
dramatic.  She  was  transfigured  by  a  wrath  that 
appeared  to  blast  her.  The  bloom  of  ripe  woman- 

210 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

hood  seemed  to  wither,  and  she  was  left  rigid  and 
awful,  with  the  brow  and  eye  of  a  Medusa.  It 
was  an  effect  which  only  a  great  actress  could 
create.  And  she  was  scarcely  less  impressive  in 
her  agony  over  her  discovery  of  Gunther's  treach- 
ery and  her  own  disgrace,  or  in  the  stony  calm 
of  the  despair  with  which  she  resolved  to  kill 
Siegfried  and  herself.  Throughout  the  conclud- 
ing acts  she  maintained  the  tragic  emotion  at  a 
high  pitch  of  tension  with  rare  fertility  of  re- 
source and  really  wonderful  nervous  and  physical 
power. 

As  might  naturally  be  expected  in  the  case  of 
an  actress  of  her  temperament,  physical  powers, 
and  period,  Janauschek  in  her  Lady  Macbeth  was 
influenced  by  the  traditions  she  found  here,  and 
especially  by  the  example  of  Cushman.  But  she 
was  far  too  great  an  actress  to  copy  anybody 
servilely.  Her  interpretation,  fully  as  strong  if 
less  savage  than  Cushman 's,  manifested  the  re- 
deeming quality  of  feminine  devotion.  Her  Lady 
Macbeth  was  murderous  in  her  ambition  and 
energetic  in  the  prompting  of  her  husband  to 
murder,  but  she  loved  him  passionately  and,  in 
her  own  tigress  fashion,  tenderly.  She  indicated 
this  trait  constantly,  and  emphasized  it  by  a 
peculiarly  fine  stroke  in  the  banquet  scene,  when, 
with  a  beautifully  compassionate  gesture,  she 

211 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

drew  the  head  of  the  conscience-stricken  Thane 
to  her  bosom,  as  if  to  shut  out  his  vision,  and 
held  it  there,  while  she  turned  upon  the  audience 
a  face  bloodless,  drawn,  and  lined  with  despair- 
ing pity. 

It  was  as  if,  at  that  moment,  she  first  fully 
realized  the  depth  and  horror  of  the  impending 
ruin,  and  her  own  share  in  the  vaulting  ambi- 
tion that  had  made  it  inevitable  for  both.  And 
in  the  sleep-walking  scene  she  indicated  the 
anguish  of  remorse  as  well  as  the  intolerable 
strain  of  anxiety,  exhaustion,  and  dread.  If  less 
striking  than  Cushman's  in  its  exhibition  of 
imperious,  conscienceless,  and  indomitable  will, 
her  impersonation  was  not  inferior  in  general 
firmness  of  execution,  while  it  was  a  trifle  less 
inhuman.  It  was  a  superb  achievement. 

She  could  sound  the  depths  of  pathos  as  well 
as  she  could  scale  the  heights  of  passion.  Her 
Mary  Stuart  was  as  affecting  as  it  was  queenly. 
But,  for  some  reason  not  easily  explained,  her 
essays  in  the  standard  drama  were  less  suc- 
cessful financially  in  New  York  than  else- 
where, although  they  always  excited  enthusiasm 
in  the  theater  and  received  the  warmest  critical 
appreciation. 

In  her  selection  of  modern  plays  she  was 
singularly  unfortunate.  She  made  remarkable 

212 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

displays  of  varied  abilities  in  wretched  pieces 
whose  absurdities  not  even  her  genius  could  miti- 
gate. A  concoction  called  "The  Doctor  of  Lima" 
was  a  perfect  miracle  of  ineptitude,  but  the 
pathos  with  which  she  filled  her  own  part  was 
supreme.  While  she  was  on  the  stage  the 
audience  was  sympathetic  and  tearful;  when  she 
was  "off"  it  was  shaken  with  irreverent  laughter. 
Once  she  enacted  Jacques  in  a  freakish  feminine 
performance  of  "As  You  Like  It,"  and — in 
spite  of  an  appalling  and  ludicrous  make-up — 
she  stirred  a  bored  audience  to  genuine  en- 
thusiasm by  her  fine  reading  of  the  part. 

For  many  years  she  was  most  prosperous  in 
"Chesney  Wold,"  a  melodrama  founded  on  the 
"Bleak  House"  of  Charles  Dickens,  in  which  as 
Lady  Dedlock  and  the  viperish  French  maid, 
Hortense,  she  furnished  a  notable  example  of 
the  range  and  perfection  of  her  technique.  There 
was  nothing,  of  course,  in  either  part — both  en- 
tirely conventional  figures — which  presented 
much  interpretational  difficulty  to  an  actress  of 
her  intelligence  and  imagination.  All  was  plain 
sailing  for  her.  But  the  unerring  certainty  with 
which  she  embodied  the  two  distinct  types,  the 
one  cold,  hard,  impassive — all  frozen  hauteur — 
and  the  other  agile,  mercurial,  waspish,  coquettish, 
and  vindictive,  was  a  striking  demonstration  of 

213 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

the  executive  efficiency  conferred  by  long  and 
diversified  training,  and  by  nothing  else.  In  all 
their  externals  the  two  women  were  as  far  apart 
as  the  poles.  Not  for  an  instant  was  there  the 
least  confusion  of  identity. 

The  theatrical  effect  was  brilliant  and  com- 
manded (and  deserved)  the  plaudits  of  the 
crowd,  but  actually  made  no  exacting  demands 
upon  the  sources  of  her  dramatic  inspiration. 
The  nobler  powers  of  the  actress  were  revealed 
only  in  the  natural  pathos  with  which  she  human- 
ized her  Lady  Dedlock  when  the  latter,  in 
suffering,  became  simple  woman.  It  was  by  this 
double  impersonation  that  Janauschek  was  most 
widely  known  in  her  riper  years,  and  is  now, 
perhaps,  chiefly  remembered,  but  it  contained 
very  little  of  her  true  genius. 

Far  happier  was  the  lot  of  Mary  Anderson, 
who,  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  her  public 
career,  was  one  of  Fortune's  darlings.  Nature 
endowed  her  with  rare  beneficence.  When,  as  a 
mere  girl,  she  first  entered  upon  the  stage,  she 
presented  a  figure  of  classic  and  virginal  purity 
that  was  almost  ideal.  Her  tall,  lithe  form  was 
at  once  stately  and  graceful,  the  poise  of  her 
head  was  stag-like,  and  her  face  was  radiant 
with  health,  innocence,  and  dignified  beauty.  It 

214 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

was  by  the  spell  of  her  personal  charms  that  she 
instantly  made  her  way  into  the  heart  of  the 
American  public,  and  she  retired  to  a  happy  and 
prosperous  privacy  when  still  at  the  height  of 
her  popularity,  while  that  spell  was  yet  potent. 
A  finer  type  of  young  American  womanhood 
could  not  easily  be  imagined.  Like  Lady  Teazle, 
"bred  wholly  in  the  country,"  she  was  accepted 
at  once  as  the  representative  American  actress 
of  her  time,  was  fondly  called  "our  Mary,"  and 
quickly  became  the  object  of  a  widespread  affec- 
tion and  admiration  that  might,  without  much 
exaggeration,  be  called  national.  As  a  novice 
she  was  placed  by  her  worshipers  on  a  pinnacle 
from  which  she  was  never  deposed.  Her  memory 
is  still  surrounded  by  a  glamor  which  no  one 
could  wish  to  dispel.  Her  beauty,  her  spotless 
character,  her  graciousness,  her  intelligence,  her 
refined  manner,  and  her  unquestionable  dramatic 
instinct  and  ability  contributed  greatly  to  the 
honor  and  glory  of  the  American  stage  while  she 
adorned  it;  but  for  all  that,  she  was  never  a 
great  actress  or  a  great  artist.  She  does  not 
belong  in  the  same  category  with  Charlotte  Cush- 
man,  Janauschek,  Modjeska,  Clara  Morris,  or 
Edwin  Booth. 

In   her   early   days,   when   she    was    first    ac- 
claimed as  a  great  genius,  she  was  manifestly  a 

215 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

tyro,  hastily  and  imperfectly  drilled,  crude  and 
spasmodic  in  action,  but  armed  with  fascination, 
courage,  ambition,  and  a  remarkable  faculty  of 
declamation.  Her  voice  was  always  one  of  the 
most  potent  weapons  in  her  artistic  armory.  It 
was  a  rich  contralto,  thoroughly  feminine,  but 
uncommonly  full,  deep,  supple,  and  melodious. 
She  knew  how  to  avail  herself  of  its  finest  tones, 
and  consequently  her  delivery  of  blank  verse 
was  not  always  proof  against  the  charge  of 
monotony — but  she  often  employed  them  to  splen- 
did purpose.  As  she  gained  experience  she  grew 
in  power  of  emotional  expression  and  was  able  to 
reinforce  vocal  richness  with  that  inner  throb  of 
feeling  that  implies,  if  it  does  not  necessarily 
denote,  inspiration,  but  she  never  succeeded  in 
identifying  herself  with  any  of  the  first-rate 
tragedy  parts  which  she  undertook.  Now  and 
again,  where  she  could  bring  all  her  natural  gifts 
into  full  display,  she  made  some  admirable  points 
and  was,  for  the  moment,  wonderfully  pic- 
turesque, imposing,  majestic,  or  appealing.  But 
she  exhibited — I  am  speaking  now  of  tragedy 
or  deeply  emotional  parts — little  versatility  in 
method  or  variety  of  resource. 

She  had  certain  formulas  in  which  she  was 
proficient,  and  she  applied  them  to  correspond- 
ing types  of  situation  with  a  deadly  and  un- 

216 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

modified  reiteration.  In  the  mechanism  of  her 
art  she  never  advanced  beyond  a  moderate  pro- 
ficiency. What  she  had  learned  to  do  she  did 
well,  but  her  executive  ability  was  rigidly  limited. 
It  ceased  to  expand.  In  it  she  revealed  neither 
invention  nor  ingenuity.  She  was  always,  solely 
and  inevitably,  Mary  Anderson,  and  she  reached 
her  artistic  boundaries  when  she  had  learned  to 
express  herself  freely  and  fully.  Thus  she 
created  no  illusion  of  character,  and  was  only 
fully  successful  when  her  part  fitted  her  like  a 
good  glove.  She  had  intelligence,  a  liberal  mea- 
sure of  capacity,  a  sure '  comprehension  of  the 
finer  feminine  instincts  and  feelings,  but  she 
had  not  genius.  In  great  parts,  demanding 
imagination,  passionate  eloquence,  or  subtle  dis- 
crimination, she  was  second-rate. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  dwell  long  upon  her  high 
tragic  experiments,  or  even  to  mention  all  of 
them.  Her  Juliet  was  charming  in  the  earlier 
acts,  a  little  lacking,  perhaps,  in  romantic  color- 
ing, but  exquisite  in  its  virginal  faith  and  in- 
nocence. In  the  tragic  climaxes  it  was  impressive 
only  in  its  picturesqueness  and  vocal  power.  It 
was  a  sympathetic  but  uninspired  performance. 
In  Sheil's  Evadne,  she  was  constantly  beyond 
her  depth  in  dealing  with  the  complex  emotions 
of  the  character,  but  her  statuesque  beauty,  her 

217 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

sense  of  pose,  and  her  declamatory  vigor  enabled 
her  to  fill  the  theatrical  situations  with  con- 
siderable effect.  In  the  final  act  she  was  at  her 
best.  In  her  white  robes  she  was  an  ideal  figure 
of  maidenly  grace,  dignity,  and  purity.  With 
her  rich  voice  she  gave  the  fullest  value  to  the 
sonorous  lines  relating  to  the  deeds  of  her  an- 
cestors, and  her  challenge  to  her  royal  perse- 
cutor was  superb.  She  was  fairly  well  suited, 
too,  in  the  part  of  the  Countess  in  Sheridan 
Knowles's  stilted  romantic  play,  "Love,"  where 
she  demonstrated  the  conflict  between  pride  and 
passion  with  striking  alternations  of  haughty 
reserve  and  impetuous  passion,  but  without  much 
subtlety  in  the  transitions.  In  the  scene  where 
she  compels  her  lover,  after  encouraging  him  to 
a  declaration  of  his  passion,  to  sign  a  marriage 
contract  with  another,  she  did  some  really  good 
acting,  and  in  her  final  surrender  she  played 
with  moving  sincerity.  She  did  excellent  work, 
too,  in  the  "Fazio"  of  Dean  Milman,  a  work  of 
notable  literary  and  tragic  power.  Her  denun- 
ciation of  her  treacherous  husband,  her  slow 
unveiling,  and  her  horror  and  incredulity  upon 
hearing  the  death  sentence  were  all  highly  im- 
pressive but  not  electrical. 

In  the  fourth  act,  where  she  pleads  for  her 
husband's  life,  offering  to  surrender  him  to  her 

218 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

rival,  she  comprehended  the  emotions  perfectly 
and  reached  a  fine  pitch  of  tragic  intensity.  This 
was  one  of  her  best  emotional  achievements.  For 
the  part  of  Ion,  in  Talfourd's  tragedy,  she  was 
imperfectly  equipped,  but  in  the  earlier  acts  she 
enacted  the  youthful  hero  with  a  very  successful 
concealment  of  her  sex.  In  the  second  act,  in  the 
scene  with  Adrastus,  she  bore  herself  with  an 
admirable  admixture  of  tenderness,  sadness,  and 
resolution.  In  the  later  scenes  she  was  scarcely 
successful  in  maintaining  illusion,  the  emotions 
and  manners  of  mature  manhood  being  altogether 
beyond  her  capacity  of  simulation. 

When  she  rashly  ventured  to  challenge  com- 
parison with  Charlotte  Cushman  in  the  character 
of  Meg  Merrilies,  she  not  only  offered  a  con- 
clusive demonstration  of  her  own  artistic  in- 
feriority, but  a  curious  lack  of  histrionic  intuition 
in  her  failure  to  make  legitimate  use  of  her  own 
physical  qualifications.  Witnessing  her  perform- 
ance, one  would  naturally  suppose  that  she  had 
never  read  "Guy  Mannering."  Scott  gives  a 
minute  description  of  his  famous  Gypsy  Sybil. 
She  was  a  masculine  figure,  six  feet  high,  erect 
as  a  grenadier,  with  a  voice  like  a  man's.  Mary 
Anderson,  who  had  the  stature,  and  the  vigor, 
and  the  voice,  chose  to  depict  the  formidable  Meg 
as  a  withered,  bent,  and  tottering  old  crone.  The 

219 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

assumption  of  old  age — .-which  is  not  difficult — 
was  not  badly  done,  but  by  this  wilful  or  ignorant 
misrepresentation  she  robbed  the  character  of 
its  proper  material  dimensions,  which  she  could 
have  supplied,  as  well  as  its  spiritual  significance, 
which  she  could  not.  Dramatic  genius  could  never 
so  flagrantly  abuse  an  opportunity.  "What  would 
not  Cushman  have  given  for  those  additional 
inches ! 

In  the  parts  which  really  suited  her — whose 
component  elements  were  those  of  her  own  tem- 
perament and  personality — Mary  Anderson  was 
wholly  delightful.  Her  Galatea  in  W.  S.  Gilbert's 
admirable  "Pygmalion  and  Galatea"  was  a 
charming  performance,  which  reflected  the  spirit 
of  the  author  in  its  various  moods  of  humor, 
sarcasm,  and  pathos  with  delicate  and  artistic 
fidelity.  As  the  statue  she  was  so  lovely  an 
example  of  pure  classic  grace  that  the  infatua- 
tion of  Pygmalion  was  no  cause  for  surprize. 
Her  awakening  to  life  was  an  exceedingly  deli- 
cate and  imaginative  piece  of  pantomime.  The 
naivete  of  her  innocence  was  perfect,  pure  un- 
sophisticated curiosity  and  bepuzzlement,  irre- 
sistibly true  and  piquant,  without  the  slightest 
trace  of  artifice.  Her  timid,  questioning,  re- 
flective, unsuspicious  air,  and  her  grave,  gentle, 
tuneful  voice,  were  all  beautifully  appropriate. 

220 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Her  treatment  of  the  episode  of  the  wounded 
fawn  was  exceedingly  clever  and  veracious,  full 
of  tenderness  and  pity,  and  delightfully  natural 
in  its  childlike  shrinking  from  the  notion  of 
annihilating  death.  The  enbodiment  was  a  most 
felicitous  combination  of  the  human,  the  poetic, 
and  the  idealistic.  It  could  have  been  furnished 
only  by  a  clever,  refined,  and  good  woman.  Her 
Parthenia,  in  "Ingomar,"  was  a  performance  of 
the  same  type,  marked  by  the  same  methods.  It 
was  an  older  Galatea,  with  a  little  more  sophisti- 
cation, a  little  more  of  the  purely  human  and 
feminine,  but  the  same  spell  of  virginal  fresh- 
ness and  innocence.  A  third  impersonation  which 
will  always  be  cherished  in  the  memories  of 
those  who  saw  it  was  her  Perdita,  in  "The 
Winter's  Tale,"  instinct  with  the  spirit  of  the 
springtime,  buoyant  with  the  joy  of  life,  mani- 
festing its  happiness  in  a  dance  which  was  the 
very  poetry  of  motion.  In  these  three  parts 
Mary  Anderson  found  herself,  in  more  senses 
than  one,  and  they  were  the  masterpieces  of  her 
theatrical  gallery. 


221 


XVI 

LAWRENCE  BARRETT,  JOHN  McCULLOUGH, 
EDGAR  L.  DAVENPORT,  JOSEPH  JEF- 
FERSON, AND  OTHERS 

JOHN  MCCULLOUGH  was  inferior  to  Barrett  in 
character,  in  intellect,  in  subtlety,  in  ambition, 
and  in  range,  but  he  was  a  good  actor,  within 
restricted  limits,  of  heroic  parts,  for  which  nature 
had  bestowed  upon  him  the  physical  qualities  in 
which  Barrett  was  deficient.  He  was  a  man  of 
noble  presence,  of  powerful  build,  with  bold 
Roman  features  and  a  voice  that  had  in  it  the 
ring  of  the  trumpet.  A  disciple  of  Forrest,  he 
emulated  the  methods  of  his  exemplar  with  con- 
siderable success,  and  in  stormy  bursts  of  passion 
he  exhibited  vast  power.  Moreover,  he  could 
assume  a  lofty  dignity  in  which  Forrest  was  lack- 
ing, and  had  a  notable  mastery  of  virile  pathos. 
He  excelled  in  broad  strokes,  in  the  vivid  con- 
trasts between  raging  passion,  portentous  calm, 
and  the  inner  convulsions  caused  by  repressed 
emotions.  But  he  was  not  an  intellectual,  imagin- 
ative, or  analytical  performer.  In  great  parts  he 
was  only  second-rate.  In  Lear,  for  instance,  he 

222 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

could  stir  his  hearers  to  enthusiasm  by  the  mag- 
nificent outbursts  of  passion  which  seemed  to 
shake  the  theater,  and  in  the  concluding  scenes 
he  depicted  the  pitiful  state  of  the  forlorn  old 
king  with  simple  and  genuine  pathos,  but  his 
impersonation  as  a  whole,  though  theatrically 
effective,  had  neither  grandeur  nor  subtlety.  It 
was  not  Lear. 

His  Othello  was  an  imposing  and  martial 
figure,  with  authority  in  voice  and  mien  and 
all  the  external  indications  of  the  *  'frank  and 
noble  nature"  with  which  lago  credited  him. 
And  his  "waked  wrath"  was  terrible.  This 
was  the  best  of  his  Shakespearean  embodi- 
ments, and  in  respect  of  adequate  passion  was 
superior  to  that  of  any  other  contemporary  Eng- 
lish-speaking actor.  But  it  was  only  in  storm  and 
stress  that  it  was  remarkable.  In  detail  it  was 
crude,  unimaginative,  unfinished,  a  bold  free- 
hand sketch  rather  than  a  completed  study.  In 
his  Macbeth,  again,  it  was  the  physical  prowess 
that  was  the  dominant  feature.  His  Eichard  III, 
in  the  Gibber  version,  was  a  bit  of  lurid  melo- 
drama. There  was  much  merit  in  his  Coriolanus, 
a  part  for  which  he  had  every  physical  qualifica- 
tion, but  it  was  an  unequal  performance,  often 
marred  by  an  exaggeration  in  which  passion  be- 
came rant,  and  sarcasm  vituperation.  But  he 

223 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

was  a  striking  picture  of  patrician  pride,  courage, 
and  contempt  when  lie  faced  the  mob  excited 
against  him  by  the  Tribunes,  and  his  "I  banish 
you!"  was  delivered  with  superb  scorn. 

His  Virginius,  in  Knowles's  tragedy,  was  his 
most  notable  achievement.  In  this  he  approached 
greatness  very  closely.  The  part,  compounded 
of  powerful  but  simple  emotions,  lay  completely 
within  the  compass  of  his  abilities,  and  called  all 
the  best  of  them  into  requisition.  Soldierly  dig- 
nity, grave  humor,  paternal  tenderness,  manly 
rage,  and  the  frantic  despair  of  a  strong  man 
were  denoted  by  him  with  masterly  simplicity 
and  truth.  His  enactment  of  the  Forum  scene 
was  heroic  in  its  proportions.  In  the  sacrifice 
of  his  daughter,  the  tenderness  of  the  fond  father 
and  the  spirit  of  the  ancient  Roman  were  most 
skilfully  blended,  and  in  the  closing  scene  of 
madness  and  despair  he  manifested  more  sub- 
tlety than  was  common  with  him.  In  this  part  he 
was  facile  princeps  among  his  contemporaries, 
and  there  is  no  American  actor  now  who  could 
equal  him  in  it.  He  excelled  also  in  some  pas- 
sages of  John  Howard  Payne's  tragedy  of 
Brutus.  Of  Richelieu  he  comprehended  little  but 
the  melodrama.  In  such  parts  as  Spartacus,  Jack 
Cade,  and  Metamora  he  delighted  the  galleries 
with  his  vocal  and  bodily  vigor;  but  mere  Irutum 

224 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

fulmen  is  not  acting.  He  stood  shoulder  high 
above  most  of  his  associates,  but  he  was  a  giant 
only  when  among  pigmies. 

Of  Edgar  L.  Davenport  some  mention  has  been 
made  already.  His  day  had  passed  when  the 
sun  of  McCullough  was  at  its  meridian.  He  had 
not  the  personal  preeminence  or  rugged  strength 
of  the  younger  man,  but  he,  too,  possessed  fine 
physical  attributes  and  he  was  a  more  in- 
tellectual and  more  accomplished  actor.  If  he 
had  not  genius,  he  had  keen  and  comprehensive 
histrionic  intelligence,  and  his  large  experience 
in  almost  every  variety  of  drama  had  made  him 
singularly  proficient  in  executive  mechanism.  His 
adaptability  was  remarkable.  His  Hamlet,  sec- 
ond only  to  Booth's,  was  an  exceedingly  able  per- 
formance, princely,  thoughtful,  tender,  gravely 
humorous,  sympathetic,  and,  in  the  crises,  finely 
passionate.  The  text  he  read  with  scholarly  and 
eloquent  discrimination.  His  Othello  revealed  a 
much  larger  insight  than  McCullough 's  and  was 
stronger  in  the  elemental  passions  than  Booth's. 
Of  the  mystery  of  Macbeth  he  exhibited  a  firm 
psychological  grasp.  His  Lear  I  never  saw;  but 
once,  when  by  a  happy  chance  he  supported 
Booth  in  that  character,  he  proved  an  incom- 
parable Edgar. 

Once,  for  his  benefit,  he  played  Hamlet  and 

225 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

William  in  " Black  Eyed  Susan,"  enacting  the 
gallant  tar  in  the  most  approved  (theatrical) 
nautical  style  and  dancing  a  horn-pipe  with  con- 
summate skill  and  agility.  His  Bill  Sykes  was 
one  of  the  most  terrific  exhibitions  of  savage 
blackguardism  ever  witnessed  on  the  stage,  while 
only  Booth  could  excel  him  in  the  craft  and 
finesse  of  Eichelieu.  His  Sir  Giles  Overreach 
was  generally  admitted  to  be  the  best  upon  the 
stage.  In  the  final  act  it  reached  a  pitch  of  pas- 
sion that  was  maniacal.  In  "Julius  Cassar"  he 
was  a  splendidly  dignified  and  magnanimous 
Brutus.  He  was  a  sterling  actor  and  artist  who, 
in  these  later  days,  would  be  considered  a  para- 
gon, but  it  was  his  ill-fortune  to  be  somewhat 
overshadowed,  the  fates  were  not  always  pro- 
pitious to  him,  and  he  never  won  the  full  recog- 
nition that  he  deserved. 

In  the  period  of  which  I  have  been  writing 
Joseph  Jefferson  was  already  one  of  the  most 
prominent  luminaries  in  the  theatrical  firma- 
ment. For  nearly  half  a  century  he  basked  in 
the  sunshine  of  prosperity.  No  comedian,  per- 
haps, has  ever  been  the  object  of  so  much  critical 
praise  or  popular  affection.  His  memory  is  still 
fresh  and  fragrant,  while  his  public  triumphs 
and  his  private  life  and  character  have  been  the 
subject  of  innumerable  publications.  I  can  add 

226 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

nothing  to  the  records  of  his  career,  and  a  sum- 
mary of  them  would  be  wholly  superfluous  and 
tiresome.  Only  one  question  concerning  him  re- 
mains to  be  decided,  and  that  relates  to  the  posi- 
tion to  be  assigned  to  him  in  the  ranks  of  his 
profession.  Everybody  knows  that  he  reflected 
honor  upon  it,  that  his  life  was  an  illustrious 
example  of  purity  and  honor,  that  he  was  a  de- 
lightful gentleman,  humorous,  gentle,  genial,  re- 
fined, generous,  and  artistic,  and  that  he  was  in 
many  ways  a  master-workman  in  his  craft.  All 
these  things  are  generally  admitted.  I  would  not 
disturb  a  leaf  of  the  laurels  deposited  upon  his 
monument.  But — there  is  nearly  always  a  but — 
I  do  not  believe  that  he  is,  in  the  final  estimate, 
entitled  to  a  place  among  the  really  great  actors 
of  history. 

He  had  not  the  gift  of  impersonation,  as  is 
proved  by  the  fact  that  he  produced  but  one 
masterpiece,  his  Eip  Van  Winkle,  which  was  ex- 
quisite. I  will  subscribe  readily  to  all  the  critical 
appreciations  that  have  been  heaped  upon  that 
achievement.  As  a  realization  of  an  ideal — an 
ideal,  it  must  be  remembered,  which  in  itself  was 
radically  false  in  nature,  though  that  hard  fact  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  execution  of  it — his  por- 
trayal was  unsurpassable  in  delicacy  of  draw- 
ing, in  glamor  of  romantic  coloring,  in  irre- 

227 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

pressible  light-heartedness,  in  tenderness,  quaint 
humor,  and  wistful  pathos.  It  was,  on  the  sur- 
face, so  absolutely  true  and  vital,  so  irresistibly 
human,  that,  no  matter  how  often  it  was  seen, 
it  never  palled.  And  yet  it  was  only  in  a 
limited  sense  a  creation.  In  manner,  as  in  senti- 
ment, it  was  primarily  and  largely  an  expression 
of  the  actor's  personal  individuality.  This  Eip 
was  not  the  drunkard  of  Irving,  who  was  of  in- 
finitely commoner  clay.  The  actor  divested  the 
part  of  its  coarser  element — the  play  itself  was  a 
clumsy  bit  of  patchwork — and  altered  it  to  fit  his 
own  moods  and  instincts  and  to  bring  it  well 
within  the  radius  of  his  own  means  of  dramatic 
expression. 

Virtually  he  acted  it  as  he  imagined  he  him- 
self would  have  behaved  if  he  had  been  in  the 
situation  ascribed  to  Eip.  Having  outlined  this 
conception  he  reinforced  and  embroidered  it  with 
every  device  of  his  theatrical  art,  until  it  at- 
tained the  minute  finish  of  a  picture  by  Meis- 
sonier  or  Holman  Hunt.  It  is  not  in  this  way 
that  the  great  imaginative  artist  works,  for  he 
knows  that  the  first  requirement  of  interpretative 
creation  is  elimination  of  self. 

That  Jefferson  pursued  this  method  is  suffi- 
ciently proved  by  the  fact  that  his  personality, 
or  that  of  Rip,  predominated  in  all  his  other  sub- 

228 


Cn     ^ 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

sequent  impersonations.  In  parts  so  diverse  as 
Caleb  Plummer,  Pangloss,  and  Bob  Acres,  the 
basic  individualities  were  identical.  This  does 
not  mean  that  they  were  all  alike  in  "business" 
or  action,  but  that  they  were,  one  and  all,  en- 
dowed with  many  identical  characteristics 
peculiar  to  the  actor.  They  were  all  unmistak- 
ably the  same  man  in  different  guises.  They 
differed  in  dress,  in  age,  in  behavior,  very  little 
if  at  all  in  personality.  In  innumerable  little 
tricks  of  manner,  in  vocal  inflections  and  intona- 
tions, in  the  familiar  little  chuckle  and  gasp,  in 
facial  play,  in  gesture,  each  was  Joseph  Jefferson. 
A  similar  criticism  would  apply,  with  equal 
truth,  of  course,  to  many  players  of  high  artistic 
repute.  But  that  is  not  the  point.  The  great 
majority  of  stage  performers  habitually  enact 
themselves  instead  of  the  fictitious  character, 
and  often  gain  much  credit  in  so  doing.  Some- 
times when  the  personality  and  temperament  of 
the  actor  coincide,  or  closely  harmonize,  with 
those  of  the  assumed  character,  the  impersona- 
tion may  be  artistically  satisfactory,  even  when 
the  actor  reveals  no  creative  power  at  all.  This 
frequently  happens  nowadays,  when  "stars"  are 
provided  with  tailor-made  parts  to  show  them  off 
to  the  best  advantage.  It  is  even  possible  for  an 
actor  with  a  notable  personality  but  very  little 

229 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

creative  power  to  play  a  great  character  greatly, 
as  in  the  case,  for  instance,  of  McCullough  and 
Virginius.  But  the  true  creative  power — the  pos- 
session of  which,  I  hold,  is  the  one  infallible  test 
of  histrionic  greatness — is  only  manifested  when 
an  actor  can  present  a  series  of  great  or  widely 
diverse  characters  without  the  obvious  assertion 
of  his  individual  self  in  any  of  them.  Booth 
demonstrated  this  faculty  in  his  Hamlet,  Riche- 
lieu, and  Bertuccio;  Salvini  in  Othello,  Conrad, 
and  Saul;  and  other  examples  could  easily  be 
cited.  It  does  not  follow  that  all  actors  with  a 
creative  faculty  must  necessarily  be  great. 
Davenport  was  not  great,  but  he  was  creative. 
He  could  play  Sir  Giles  Overreach  or  Bill  Sykes. 
E.  A.  Sothern  was  not  great,  but  he  created  Lord 
Dundreary,  and  Fitzaltamont  in  "The  Crushed 
Tragedian."  The  quality  of  the  creative  power 
and  of  the  greatness  of  the  actor  can  only  be 
estimated  by  the  imaginative  or  emotional  quality 
of  the  part  and  the  effect  of  its  interpretation. 

Now  none  of  the  parts  in  which  Jefferson  de- 
lighted his  audiences  could  by  any  stretch  of  the 
imagination  be  called  great.  None  of  them 
sounded  the  heights  or  depths  of  emotion,  lofty 
flights  of  imagination  or  passion,  or  demanded 
the  exhibition  of  uncommon  intellectual,  moral, 
or  dramatic  power.  They  all  lay  within  the 

230 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

limits  of  the  middle  register.  All  of  them  were 
played,  and  often  very  well  played,  by  actors  of 
no  extraordinary  capacity.  There  were  many 
who  preferred  the  Caleb  Plummer  of  John  E. 
Owens — there  was  certainly  more  of  Dickens  in 
it — and  the  Acres  of  George  Giddens,  to  Jeffer- 
son's presentment  of  those  characters.  It  is 
scarcely  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  Jefferson 
never  really  played  Acres  at  all.  He  did  not  in 
the  least  resemble  the  unsophisticated  British 
country  squire,  vainly  aping  fashionable  man- 
ners, whom  Sheridan  sketched.  He  was  delect- 
able, infinitely  amusing,  utterly  unreal — Joseph 
Jefferson  in  delicious  masquerade.  Wherein 
then — if  he  was  not  a  creator  and  could  not  or 
did  not  play  great  parts,  and,  therefore,  was  not, 
in  the  true  sense,  a  great  actor — is  to  be  found 
the  secret  of  Jefferson's  popularity  and  fame? 
The  answer  is  easy.  In  his  consummate  artistry 
and  his  personal  fascination.  Whether  or  not  he 
was  conscious  of  the  comparatively  narrow 
boundaries  of  his  dramatic  powers  does  not  much 
matter. 

It  is  sufficient  to  know  that  he  made  no  serious 
effort  to  cross  them.  He  was  content,  through- 
out the  greater  part  of  his  long  and  active  life, 
to  play  the  characters  which,  in  a  very  special 
sense,  he  had  made  peculiarly  his  own.  In 

231 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

effecting  these  personifications  he  employed  a 
technical  skill  which  was  as  nearly  perfect  as 
anything  in  this  imperfect  world  can  be.  His 
most  intricate  and  delicate  mechanism  worked 
with  flawless  accuracy,  precision,  and  smooth- 
ness. Everything  that  he  said  or  did  upon  the 
stage  appeared  to  proceed  from  the  impulse  of 
the  moment,  to  be  entirely  spontaneous.  It  cost 
him  long  years  of  hard  and  varied  stage  work, 
in  his  youth,  to  acquire  this  mechanical  pro- 
ficiency, but  the  investment  of  time  and  labor 
brought  him  an  exceedingly  rich  reward.  He 
earned  it  and  deserved  it,  but  that  is  no  reason 
why  he  should  be  accredited  with  a  genius  he  did 
not  possess. 

In  scribbling  these  desultory  and  discursive 
reminiscences  I  have  tried  only  to  touch  upon 
those  outstanding  features  in  a  vast  mass  of 
theatrical  matter  which  may  be  of  some  present 
significance  and  interest.  There  has  been  no  at- 
tempt at  a  complete  record.  The  great  majority 
of  the  plays  between  1874  and  1884  were  of  no 
better  quality  than  those  of  to-day — were  not, 
perhaps,  quite  so  good.  They  have  long  sunk 
into  well-merited  oblivion  and  may  be  permitted 
to  remain  there  undisturbed.  And  I  have  con- 
fined myself  to  plays  given  in  English,  making  no 
mention  of  Sarah  Bernhardt,  Eistori,  or  Rossi, 

232 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

who  belong  to  this  period.  They  could  scarcely 
be  claimed  for  the  American  stage,  and,  in  any 
case,  they  could  not  be  properly  treated  in  any 
amount  of  space  that  could  now  be  spared  for 
them.  Bistori,  after  some  brilliant  triumphs  in 
her  native  tongue — she  was  a  magnificent  artist 
— did,  indeed,  make  some  unfortunate  essays  in 
English,  but  with  disastrous  consequences. 

Of  the  Sarah  Bernhardt  of  thirty-five  years  ago 
this  much  may  be  said,  that  she  was  a  much 
greater  artist  then  than  she  is  to-day.  I  do  not 
think  that  many  of  the  leading  English-speaking 
dramatic  personalities  have  been  overlooked,  but 
there  are  some  secondary  figures  which  deserve 
a  line  or  two  of  mention.  W.  J.  Florence  was  a 
comedian  of  very  nearly  first-rate  ability  and 
genuine  creative  power.  His  Bardwell  Slote,  his 
Bob  Brierly,  and  his  Sir  Lucius  0 'Trigger  may 
be  quoted  as  samples  of  his  versatility.  The 
lovely  Adelaide  Neilson  won  triumph  as  Amy 
Robsart,  and  was  successful  as  Beatrice  in  "Much 
Ado."  Rosina  Vokes,  in  farcical  comedy,  was 
one  of  the  cleverest  and  most  piquant  actresses 
who  ever  adorned  the  stage.  She  had  the  most 
infectious  laugh  ever  heard  in  a  theater  and  a 
merry  devil  lodged  in  her  eye.  John  S.  Clarke 
was  a  most  unctuous  and  mirth-provoking,  though 
excessively  mannered  comedian.  Daniel  E.  Band- 

233 


SIXTY    YEARS    OP    THE    THEATER 

mann,  a  brilliant  but  uneven  actor  of  romantic 
parts,  attracted  attention  and  excited  controversy 
with  his  Hamlet,  Shylock,  and  Narcisse.  Mrs. 
John  Drew,  one  of  the  most  sterling  comedians 
of  her  time,  was  an  ideal  Mrs.  Malaprop.  Gene- 
vieve  Ward,  a  forcible,  intellectual,  but  somewhat 
frigid  actress,  gave  a  brilliant  performance  of  the 
adventuress  in  " Forget  Me  Not,"  and  won  criti- 
cal commendation  in  "Jane  Shore"  and  "Mac- 
beth." Charles  Wyndham,  in  his  prime,  played 
in  light  comedy  with  unflagging  spirit  and  won- 
derful agility.  And  W.  S.  Gilbert  came  over  to 
produce  "Pinafore,"  "The  Pirates  of  Penzance," 
and  "Patience,"  and  to  illustrate  his  notions  of 
stage  management.  Few  men  have  been  so  expert 
in  this  art.  He  could  not  only  tell  a  performer 
what  to  do,  but  show  him  how  to  do  it.  And  he 
persisted  until  he  had  his  way.  A  well-known 
comedian,  still  living,  rebelled  against  his  tuition. 
"I  have  been  acting,"  he  said  sarcastically,  "for 
twenty  years,  and  I  should  think  that  by  this 
time  I  ought  to  know  my  business."  "So  should 
I,"  said  Gilbert.  There  was  a  quarrel  among  the 
chorus  girls  and  one  of  them  began  to  cry. 
"What's  the  matter,  my  dear?"  said  Mr.  Gil- 
bert, paternally.  Pointing  to  her  neighbor,  the 
girl  replied,  "She  says  that  I  am  no  better  than 
I  ought  to  be!"  "Never  mind,"  said  Gilbert; 
"you  are,  aren't  you?" 

234 


XVII 

IRVING  AND  TERRY 

IT  was  in  October,  1883,  that  Henry  Irving,  the 
undisputed  leader  of  the  English-speaking  stage 
for  many  years,  began  his  first  and  most  mem- 
orable engagement  on  the  New  York  stage.  He 
paid  us  several  later  visits,  in  the  course  of  which 
he  made  many  notable  productions,  but  none  quite 
so  good  as  those  with  which  he  first  surprised 
and  delighted  the  town.  Even  he  could  not  make 
much  headway  against  the  progressive  degenera- 
tion that  had  set  in  upon  the  stage,  although  he 
checked  it  for  a  time.  His  famous  company — 
which  at  its  best  was  not  the  equal  of  that  which 
had  in  still  earlier  years  supported  Phelps  at 
Sadler's  Wells — was  gradually  weakened  by 
death  and  other  causes,  and  the  best  available 
new  material  was  inferior  to  the  old.  The  main- 
springs of  his  own  artistic  energies  relaxed  slowly 
under  the  strain  which  he  imposed  upon  them, 
but  in  1883  he  was  in  the  meridian  of  his  powers 
and  his  fame,  and  for  a  season  he  revived  the 

235 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

ancient  glories  of  the  stage  and  enriched  them 
with  a  new  luster. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  exaggerate  the  value  of 
his  managerial  services  to  the  public  and  the 
theater.  He  reawakened  popular  interest  in  the 
legitimate  drama,  showed  managers  once  more 
how  Shakespeare  could  be  made  to  pay,  dem- 
onstrated by  financial  success  the  efficiency  of  the 
artistic  theater  as  a  commercial  enterprise  and 
the  superiority  of  the  stock  over  the  star  system, 
and  gave  a  permanent  uplift  to  the  social  status 
of  the  actor.  He  did  for  the  poetic  and  romantic 
drama  what  Wallack's  at  its  best  did  for  literary 
artificial  comedy.  It  is  true  that  the  fabric  he 
had  reared  began  to  crumble  before  his  death — 
when  he  was  assailed  by  ill-health  and  a  series 
of  staggering  misfortunes — and  disappeared  after 
it,  but  the  effects  of  his  example  and  of  the  high 
standards  which  he  reestablished  are  still  percep- 
tible, and  he  left  possible  successors  and  imita- 
tors, not  only  in  his  son,  who  seems  to  have 
inherited  a  considerable  measure  of  his  abilities, 
but  in  a  group  of  rising  young  actors,  chiefly 
reared  in  the  school  of  P.  E.  Benson,  who  are 
trying  to  follow  in  his  footsteps. 

It  would  be  as  presumptuous  as  it  would  be 
futile  to  attempt,  within  the  prescribed  limits  of 
a  paper  of  this  kind,  anything  like  a  full  synop- 

236 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

sis  of  his  career,  or  a  minute  analysis  of  his  intel- 
lectual and  histrionic  capacities.  The  main  facts 
in  his  life  are  familiar  to  everybody  inter- 
ested in  modern  theatrical  affairs,  and  the  minor 
details  are  easily  accessible  in  published  biogra- 
phies. To  rehearse  them  here  would  be  tedious. 
I  shall  confine  myself,  therefore,  to  a  few  general 
observations  upon  his  work  and  his  personal  and 
artistic  characteristics  when  in  his  prime.  He 
was,  in  the  exact  sense  of  the  word,  extraor- 
dinary, as  man,  actor,  and  manager.  His  intellect 
was  keen,  his  will  indomitable,  his  ambition  insa- 
tiate, his  industry  great,  his  energy  almost  inde- 
fatigable. Some  authoritative  critics  credited 
him  with  great  dramatic  genius,  others  main- 
tained that  he  had  none.  The  truth,  as  it  is  apt 
to  do,  lies  between  the  extremes.  Certainly,  I 
should  say,  he  could  not  rightfully  be  included 
in  the  category  of  such  great  actors  as  Salvini, 
Edwin  Booth,  Edmund  Kean,  Macready,  and 
Phelps,  but  in  many  diverse  characters  he  had 
moments  when  he  came  very  near  to  greatness,  if 
he  did  not  attain  it.  He  could  no  more  keep  his 
personal  individuality  out  of  his  characters  than 
Joseph  Jefferson  could,  or  Mr.  Dick  exclude  King 
Charles's  head  from  his  memorial,  but  he  could 
supplement  it  with  traits  and  passions  entirely 
foreign  to  it,  yet  appropriate  to  the  fictitious 

237 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

part,  in  a  manner  that  clearly  proved  his  inven- 
tiveness, his  imagination,  and,  in  a  certain  degree, 
his  versatility. 

He  sometimes  furnished  more  of  Irving  than 
of  the  assumed  character,  but  he  was  never  Irv- 
ing in  masquerade  and  nobody  else.  Take  him 
as  a  whole,  sum  him  up  in  his  threefold  capa- 
city as  man,  actor,  and  manager,  and  his  title  to 
the  possessorship  of  that  special  and  often  un- 
definable  natural  gift  which  is  called  genius  could 
scarcely  be  gainsaid.  Beyond  all  question  he  had 
the  infinite  capacity  for  taking  pains.  There  was 
not  a  trick  in  his  trade  which  he  did  not  know 
and  which  he  did  not  strive  to  master.  When  I 
first  saw  him  act  in  London,  more  than  fifty  years 
ago,  in  a  number  of  small  parts,  there  was  noth- 
ing particularly  noticeable  about  him  except  a 
certain  eccentric  jerkiness  in  speech  and  action. 
But  he  was  thorough.  I  remember  the  famished 
haste  with  which  he  gulped  down  bread  as  Jeremy 
Diddler.  He  was  stiff,  awkward,  laborious,  but 
decisive.  His  mechanism  was  not  yet  as  promptly 
responsive  to  his  directing  intelligence  as  it 
became  afterward. 

During  the  arduous  years  of  his  apprenticeship 
his  progress  was  slow,  but  it  was  steady.  It  was 
not  until  he  at  last  found  his  opportunity  in 
"Hunted  Down"  and  "The  Two  Roses"  that  he 

238 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

revealed  the  power  of  subtle  intellectual  concep- 
tion that  lay  behind  his  eccentric  and  hitherto 
inflexible  manner.  When  he  first  recited  the 
"Eugene  Aram"  of  Tom  Hood,  his  minute  and 
vivid  portrayal  of  a  remorseful  criminal,  driven 
to  frenzy  by  the  pangs  of  a  fearful  conscience, 
was  a  revelation  to  his  warmest  friends  and  ad- 
mirers. He  had  found  his  true  line.  From  Aram 
he  proceeded  to  Mathias  in  "The  Bells,"  which 
led  him  speedily  to  fame  and  fortune. 

A  discussion  of  the  question  whether  there  was 
real  genius  in  his  acting,  and  if  so,  how  much, 
would  not  be  very  profitable  now.  The  critical 
camp,  as  has  been  said,  is  divided  upon  it.  Person- 
ally, I  do  not  think  that  he  ever  manifested  a  spark 
of  the  divine  fire,  certainly  not  in  any  of  the 
great  tragic  characters  that  he  attempted.  Genius 
on  the  stage  seldom  takes  long  to  ripen.  He  did 
not  leap,  at  a  bound,  from  obscurity  to  fame,  as 
did  Garrick,  Talma,  Edmund  Kean,  Salvini,  and 
others.  He  worked  his  way  slowly  up  from  the 
bottom  to  the  top,  not  by  any  abnormal  power, 
but  by  virtue  of  his  ambitious  spirit,  his  rare 
intelligence,  his  artistic  instinct,  and  his  splen- 
did, self-reliant  courage.  The  interpretation  of 
passions  in  their  more  heroic  or  exalted  forms 
was  a  task  beyond  his  strength.  Over  the  ordi- 
nary emotions  he  had  more  than  a  sufficient  con- 

239 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

trol,  but  he  was  primarily  an  intellectual  rather 
than  emotional  actor.  He  could  charm  by  his 
delicacy,  dazzle  by  his  brilliancy,  and  thrill  by 
his  intensity,  but  he  could  not  overwhelm.  He 
could  be  finely  dignified  and  tender,  as  in  Charles 
I;  regal,  subtle,  and  pathetic,  as  in  Lear,  but  not 
grand  or  awful;  he  could  be  beautifully  paternal, 
as  in  "The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,"  but  he  could 
not  play  the  romantic  lover.  His  Komeo  was  a 
dismal  failure.  It  was  in  intellectual  and  eccen- 
tric characters,  especially  those  in  which  there 
was  a  vein  of  sardonic  humor  or  a  taint  of  evil, 
that  he  was  most  successful,  such  as  Mathias, 
Louis  XI,  lago,  Malvolio,  Eichelieu,  Shylock,  or 
Benedick. 

It  was  as  Mathias  in  "The  Bells/*  the  part 
in  which  he  first  won  celebrity,  that  he  made  his 
debut  in  this  country,  and  his  performance  ex- 
cited great  enthusiasm  and  warm  controversy. 
As  he  played  it  then  it  was,  in  its  cleverness  of 
conception,  consistency,  and  progressive  develop- 
ment of  design,  a  masterpiece.  The  character, 
of  course,  is  not  a  great  one.  It  is  a  morbid 
but  exceedingly  effective  theatrical  study  of  a 
crafty,  resolute,  and  unsuspected  murderer  driven 
to  despair  and  death  by  the  spiritual  anguish 
caused  by  hallucinations  provoked  by  conscience. 
Psychologically,  it  is  not  scientific  or  important. 

240 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Expert  criminologists  know  that  murderers  of 
that  stamp  do  not  suffer  or  die  in  that  way.  But 
the  design  of  the  dramatist  was  to  exhibit  in 
theatrical  pantomime  the  unavailing  struggle  of 
an  unyielding  will  to  defy  the  throes  of  an  inap- 
peasable  remorse,  and  Irving  comprehended  it 
perfectly  and  illustrated  it  with  such  a  wealth  of 
cunning,  intellectual  executive  resource,  such  in- 
finite variation  of  facial  play,  expressive  pose, 
gesture,  and  vocal  inflection,  that  it  became  fas- 
cinating, harrowing,  and  plausible. 

In  later  years  the  impersonation  became  some- 
what feebler  and  overwrought,  and  so  conveyed 
an  impression  of  strain  and  artificiality.  Actu- 
ally it  was  always  the  result  of  artful,  delib- 
erate, theatrical  calculation,  a  composition  de- 
signed for  effect,  not  for  analysis,  but  in  its 
earlier  days  it  was  performed  with  a  rapidity, 
smoothness,  and  nervous  force  that  gave  it  the 
semblance  of  spontaneous  inspiration,  especially 
when  the  actor  was  new  to  his  audience  and  even 
his  mannerisms  assumed  the  aspect  of  invention. 
Really  the  impersonation  revealed  few  of  the  finer 
qualities  of  the  actor,  but  it  was  a  wonderful 
demonstration  of  theatrical  intelligence  and  fin- 
ished executive  skill.  And  these  again  were  the 
conspicuous  features  of  his  remarkable  embodi- 
ment of  Louis  XL  This,  too,  was  eminently  the- 

241 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

atrical,  in  some  places  it  approached  the  gro- 
tesque, but  it  was  so  nicely  proportioned,  so 
consistent  in  its  extravagances,  and  so  elaborately 
wrought — was  such  an  admirable  blend  of  senile 
ferocity,  suspicion,  lust,  cruelty,  superstition, 
treachery,  and  abject  cowardice — that  it  passed 
for  human.  It  was  a  marvel  of  stage  technique, 
especially  in  the  encounter  with  Nemours  and  in 
the  death  scene.  But  it  was  not  a  great  perform- 
ance, because  it  was  untrue,  dealt  only  with  the 
baser  emotions,  and  called  for  no  great  effort  of 
histrionic  imagination.  Both  these  characters  lay 
easily  within  the  range  of  the  actor's  executive 
powers. 

In  "Charles  I." — a  most  unhistorical  romance 
* — Irving  struck  a  higher  note  and  presented  an- 
other striking  proof  of  his  sense  of  characteriza- 
tion. He  looked  the  unhappy  king  as  if  he  had 
just  stepped  out  of  the  frame  of  a  Vandyke  por- 
trait, and  his  carriage  was  that  of  easy,  hab- 
itual, and  unconscious  authority.  His  subdued, 
thoughtful,  dignified  manner  was  in  striking  con- 
trast with  the  nervous  excitability  of  Mathias  and 
Louis,  and  proved  the  completeness  of  his  artis- 
tic self-control.  The  part  was  no  hard  test  of 
his  ability,  but  he  made  some  uncommonly  fine 
strokes  in  his  majestic  treatment  of  Cromwell — 
who  is  introduced  simply  as  a  " server"  to  the 

242 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

king — and  in  the  pathetic  rebuke  of  the  traitor 
Moray,  which  he  littered  with  a  simplicity  totally 
free  from  his  usual  elocutionary  peculiarities. 
But  it  was  in  "The  Merchant  of  Venice"  that  he 
won  his  greatest  triumph  as  an  actor-manager. 
No  such  performance  of  that  comedy  has  been 
given  in  this  city,  before  or  since.*  His  later  rep- 
resentations of  it  were  less  perfect  because  he 
no  longer  had  the  same  cast.  The  production  in 
1883  was  probably — taking  it  all  in  all — the  finest 
Shakespearean  revival  he  ever  made.  It  was  in 
every  way,  pictorially  and  dramatically,  worthy 
of  the  text,  and  it  is  of  mighty  few  Shakespear- 
ean revivals  that  so  much  can  be  truthfully 
declared.  As  a  spectacle  it  charmed  by  the  artis- 
tic beauty  of  its  grouping  and  coloring,  the  pic- 
turesqueness  and  genuine  realism  of  its  street 
scenes,  the  fine  tone  and  finish  of  its  interiors, 
and  the  poetic  atmosphere  surrounding  the  gar- 
den at  Belmont.  The  whole  panorama  was  the 
product  of  scholarly,  liberal,  imaginative,  and 
tasteful  direction.  And  the  acting,  from  first  to 
last,  was  of  the  same  high  quality  as  the  setting. 
The  Shylock  of  Irving  was  not  far  behind 
Booth's.  Inferior  to  it  in  oratory  and  passion, 
it  was  equal  to  it  in  intellectual  force  and  supe- 
rior to  it  in  romantic  fancy.  It  held  the  interest 

*  This  holds  good  up  to  the  present  time,  June,  1916. 
243 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

of  the  spectators  in  the  firmest  grip.  The  chief 
defect  in  it  was  a  certain  inconsistency.  In  the 
opening  acts  it  was  all  venom,  hatred,  and  supple 
craft,  but  in  the  trial  scene — after  Portia's  ver- 
dict— it  assumed  an  air  of  noble  patriarchal  suf- 
ferance under  savage  and  unjust  persecution. 
The  final  exit — as  the  broken  old  Jew,  with  hag- 
gard face,  blank,  staring  eyes,  and  tottering  steps, 
groped  his  way  from  the  court  room  supporting 
himself  with  outstretched  arms  against  the  wall 
— was  a  wonderful  picture  of  stunned  misery. 

And  with  what  a  group  of  sterling  players  was 
this  Shylock  surrounded!  First  and  foremost, 
of  course,  was  the  Portia  of  Ellen  Terry,  then  in 
the  fullest  bloom  of  feminine  witchery.  This  was 
the  fairest  and  most  enchanting  impersonation, 
perhaps,  of  her  Shakespearean  women.  She 
was  dazzling  and  dangerous  as  the  wilful  and 
brilliant  Beatrice,  a  lovely  and  pitiful  Ophelia, 
a  tender  and  poetic  Viola;  but  with  the  part  of 
Portia  she  seemed  to  identify  herself  completely, 
illustrating  its  every  mood  with  an  irresistible 
grace  and  most  spontaneous  ease.  Charles  Eeade 
defined  the  actress  very  happily  when  he  said 
that  "grace  pervades  the  hussy. "  Accomplished 
actress  as  she  was,  she  owed  much  of  her  success 
to  the  natural  beauty  of  her  movements.  Of 
other  actors  in  this  memorable  cast,  Wenrnan  was 

244 


> 
«  . 

3  :a 


w 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

an  admirable  Antonio,  poor  William  Terriss  a 
most  gallant  Bassanio,  old  Howe  a  perfect  Duke, 
the  veteran  Tom  Meade  an  ideal  Prince  of  Mo- 
rocco, S.  Johnson  an  excellent  Launcelot  Gobbo, 
and  Miss  Payne  a  most  attractive  Nerissa.  There 
was  no  weak  spot  anywhere. 

In  the  effective  melodrama,  "The  Lyons  Mail," 
Irving 's  best  acting  was  done  in  the  part  of  the 
falsely  accused  Lesurques.  His  portrayal  of 
amazed,  indignant,  and  confounded  innocence 
charged  with  a  crime  which  it  can  not  refute  was 
extraordinarily  clever  and  subtle,  but  he  gained 
more  applause  for  his  murderous  and  drunken 
ruffian  Dubosc,  a  part  which  could  easily  have 
been  played  much  more  effectively  by  a  far  less 
capable  actor,  with  better  physical  advantages. 
It  was  a  clever  bit  of  theatrical  trickery,  but 
there  was  nothing  wonderful  or  very  impressive 
about  it,  although  it  pleased  the  galleries  greatly. 
Nor  did  he  add  greatly  to  his  laurels  by  his 
Doricourt  in  "The  Belle's  Stratagem,"  in  which 
his  worst  mannerisms  were  painfully  apparent. 
But,  as  might  be  expected,  he  played  the  mad 
scene  very  cleverly.  The  last  production  of  this 
first  engagement  was  "Hamlet,"  which  in  re- 
spect of  pictorial  beauty,  general  excellence  of 
stage  management,  and  thorough  competency  of 
the  supporting  cast,  was  the  equal  of  "The  Mer- 

245 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

chant  of  Venice. "  But  unfortunately  there  was 
one  weak  spot  in  it,  and  that  was  the  Prince.  In 
that  part — more  aggressively,  perhaps,  than  in 
any  other  of  the  great  tragic  characters  that  he 
played  here  in  after  years — were  the  disabilities 
of  Irving  to  cope  with  great  emotional  poetic 
conceptions  made  manifest.  I  do  not  propose  to 
dwell  upon  them  now. 

Of  course,  there  was  much  that  was  admirable 
in  his  impersonation,  but  these  excellences  were 
exhibited  almost  exclusively  in  the  less  emo- 
tional passages.  In  the  crises  it  was  eccentric, 
extravagant,  tricky,  and  melodramatic.  Its  suc- 
cesses only  helped  to  make  its  failures  more  ex- 
asperating. Its  reception  in  this  country  was 
cool.  In  London  it  found  much  more  general 
acceptance.  There  he  had  not  to  contend  with 
Edwin  Booth.  It  is  pleasant  to  be  able  to  close 
this  paper  with  a  reference  to  one  of  his  artis- 
tic triumphs.  His  "Twelfth  Night,"  which  he 
presented  in  November,  1884,  was  an  almost  ideal 
representation.  In  Malvolio  he  found  a  part 
admirably  adapted  to  his  intelligence,  his  tem- 
perament, his  methods,  and  to  his  peculiar  vein 
of  grave  or  sardonic  humor.  His  steward  was 
no  buffoon.  He  conceived  and  played  him  in 
the  mood  of  a  Don  Quixote,  making  him  an 
object  of  pity  rather  than  laughter,  although  he 

246 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

was  infinitely  amusing.  His  long,  lank,  angular 
figure,  his  grave,  ascetic  face,  his  very  manner  of 
speech,  enabled  him  to  suggest  the  Quixotic 
type.  (He  did,  it  will  be  remembered,  embody 
the  Knight  of  La  Mancha  in  later  years.)  He 
appeared  as  a  melancholy  Hidalgo,  distraught 
by  an  egotism  which  rendered  him  unconscious 
of  his  potential  servitude  while  greatly  intensify- 
ing his  susceptibilty  to  the  slights  of  his  domes- 
tic associates. 

At  bottom  he  was  a  proud  and  sensitive,  if  also 
very  silly  and  ridiculous,  gentleman.  The  vic- 
tim of  a  cruel  practical  joke,  a  butt  for  coarse 
merriment,  the  perfect  sincerity  of  his  feelings 
and  his  self-deception  made  his  fate  tragic.  Un- 
questionably Irving  embodied  the  true  Shake- 
spearean fancy,  and  he  illustrated  it  with  innu- 
merable touches  of  rarely  subtle  humor  and 
genuine  pathos.  It  was  a  notable  creation,  but 
imperfectly  comprehended  by  the  general  pub- 
lic, which  found  more  delight  in  the  liquorish 
Sir  Toby  of  Wenman,  one  of  the  most  unctuous 
bits  of  robust  low  comedy  ever  seen  upon  the 
stage,  the  exquisite  Viola  of  Ellen  Terry,  the 
sparkling  Maria  of  Miss  Payne,  and  the  excellent 
Sir  Andrew  of  Norman  Forbes.  The  whole  rep- 
resentation was  a  managerial  achievement  of 
the  highest  merit,  and  the  memory  of  it  is  still 
fragrant. 

247 


XVIII 

TOMMASO  SALVINI  AND  LESTER  WALLACE 

IT  was  in  October,  1885,  that  the  late  Tom- 
maso  Salvini,  then  in  his  artistic  and  physical 
prime,  once  more  essayed'  the  character  of  King 
Lear  before  an  American  audience,  thus  chal- 
lenging comparison  with  Edwin  Booth  and  Edwin 
Forrest.  He  played  it  under  the  most  adverse 
conditions,  amid  the  vast  spaces  of  the  Metro- 
politan Opera  House,  in  an  unsatisfactory  Italian 
version  of  the  tragedy,  with  an  English-speaking 
company  of  inferior  quality,  whose  professed 
support  was  a  perpetual  handicap.  Yet  his 
triumph  over  all  these  difficulties  was  absolute. 
From  beginning  to  end  he  held  in  thrall  an  audi- 
ence which  completely  filled  the  great  house 
and  gave  vent  to  its  emotions  in  frequent  out- 
bursts of  rapturous  applause,  such  as  only  acting 
of  the  supremest  kind  can  evoke  in  a  theater. 
The  greatest  demonstration  of  all,  perhaps,  oc- 
curred at  the  end  of  the  death  scene,  at  the  end 
of  the  performance.  Late  as  was  the  hour,  the 
spectators  lingered  to  call  the  actor  before  the 
curtain  again  and  again,  as  if  unwilling  to  leave 

248 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

the  scene  of  their  enchantment.  No  more  re- 
markable spontaneous  tribute  was  ever  given 
to  any  achievement  of  histrionic  genius.  But 
the  effort  itself  was  damned  with  faint  and 
grudging  praise  by  most  of  the  contemporaneous 
critics.  They  acknowledged  the  power  of  it,  but 
pronounced  it  un-Shakespearean,  untraditional, 
unsympathetic,  romantic,  and  melodramatic 
rather  than  tragic.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  impugn 
the  sincerity  of  their  verdict.  Their  judgment, 
not  their  honesty,  failed  them.  What  they  lacked 
was  catholicity  of  taste  and  comprehension.  They 
were  more  or  less  justified  by  the  narrow  tradi- 
tional standards  by  which  they  permitted  them- 
selves to  be  bound.  It  is  perfectly  true  that  the 
Lear  of  Salvini  could  never  entirely  satisfy  those 
who  hold  that  Shakespeare  can  not  be  understood 
or  interpreted  except  by  an  actor  of  Anglo-Saxon 
lineage.  It  was  not  primarily  or  exclusively 
British.  That  is  not  a  fatal  objection  in  the  eyes 
of  those  who  realize  that  human  emotions  are 
alike  everywhere,  but  may  vary  infinitely  in 
their  modes  of  expression. 

What  was  Shakespeare's  Lear?  He  was  a 
semi-barbaric  King,  imperious,  rugged,  pictur- 
esque, headstrong,  and  a  mighty  warrior,  who 
wielded  a  good,  biting  falchion.  Burdened,  but 
not  broken,  by  age,  he  was  driven  mad  by  the 

249 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

indignities  heaped  upon  him  by  the  cruel  and 
faithless  daughters,  trusting  in  whom  he  had  abdi- 
cated. At  the  last  he  was  a  foolish,  fond  old 
man,  the  most  pathetic  and  one  of  the  most  tragic 
and  poetic  figures  in  all  drama.  All  of  this  Sal- 
vim  was.  His  impersonation  differed  at  almost 
every  point  from  those  of  Phelps,  of  Forrest,  or 
of  Edwin  Booth,  but  was  inferior  to  none  of  them 
in  subtlety  and  consistency  of  conception,  imag- 
inative detail,  pathos,  or  finished  execution, 
while  it  exceeded  them  all  in  its  facile  dominance 
of  tragic  passion.  In  port  he  was  majestic,  in 
fury  terrible,  in  his  desolation  unutterably  piti- 
ful. It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  anything 
more  realistic  than  the  shifting  moods  of  his 
madness.  In  a  word  he  vitalized  an  ideal  which 
might  have  been,  even  if  it  was  not,  that  of 
Lear's  creator — one  that  Shakespeare  certainly 
would  never  have  disowned.  Italian  it  was,  be- 
yond all  question,  but  it  was  also  human  and 
superb.  As  for  the  charge  that  it  was  romantic 
melodrama,  that  need  not  be  denied.  It  origi- 
nated in  a  confusion  of  terms.  Melodrama  is 
but  tragedy  of  a  baser  sort,  and  all  poetic  trag- 
edy is  romantic  melodrama  raised  to  its  highest 
degree.  The  greater  includes  the  less.  The 
romantic  and  picturesque  qualities  of  Salvini's 
Lear  contributed  greatly  to  its  fascination. 

250 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

For  the  carping  criticism  that  was  directed 
against  the  Coriolanus  of  Salvini  there  was  much 
less  excuse  on  the  score  of  orthodoxy.  He  played 
this  character,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  in 
November,  1885,  and  his  experiment  naturally 
excited  lively  interest  among  the  most  intelligent 
class  of  playgoers.  He  confronted  an  audience  as 
large  and  as  cultivated  as  any  that  has  ever  been 
assembled  within  the  walls  of  a  New  York  thea- 
ter, and  he  conquered  it  completely.  He  might 
have  said,  in  the  words  of  the  assumed  charac- 
ter, "Alone  I  did  it,"  for  never  did  man  act 
amid  more  discouraging  conditions.  The  scenery 
was  a  collection  of  odds  and  ends,  the  support 
was  infamous,  and  he  spoke  in  a  language  a 
majority  of  his  hearers  could  not  understand. 
On  the  other  hand,  it  is  obvious  that  the  part  of 
Coriolanus  was  one  with  which  he  had  much 
closer  natural  affinity  than  that  of  Lear.  He 
had  fewer  racial  and  textual  difficulties  to  deal 
with,  and  was,  of  course,  fully  conversant  with 
the  legendary  history  upon  which  the  play  was 
founded.  If  he  could  not  master  the  letter, 
he  could  at  any  rate  grasp  the  spirit  of  the 
Shakespearean  creation,  even  through  the  para- 
phrases of  an  uninspired  translation.  There  is 
doubtless  some  warrant  for  the  oft-repeated 
assertion  that  Shakespeare  conceived  all  his  for- 

251 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

eigners  in  terms  of  the  Anglo-Saxon,  but  to  inti- 
mate that,  by  reason  of  his  nationality,  Salvini, 
a  histronic  genius  of  the  first  order,  was  unable 
to  comprehend  the  nature  of  an  ancient  Roman 
was  as  illogical  and  presumptuous  as  it  was 
parochial. 

The  simple  truth  is  that  his  performance  was 
nothing  short  of  extraordinary  in  its  impressive- 
ness,  picturesqueness,  and  vitality.  It  is  toler- 
ably safe  to  say  that,  so  far  as  mere  grandeur  of 
physical  proportions  are  concerned,  the  old 
Roman  patrician  never  before  had  so  magnifi- 
cent a  representative.  In  face  and  figure  he  was 
an  ideal  soldier  of  the  classic  heroic  mold.  Ma- 
cready,  and  other  leaders  of  the  English-speaking 
stage,  conceived  Coriolanus  as  an  aristocrat  of 
the  Saxon  type  with  the  sluggish  insular  pulse.  In 
Salvini 's  person,  he  glowed  with  the  ardent  tem- 
perament of  the  Latin  races.  To  him  the  frigid 
immobility,  which  in  the  English  theater  is  com- 
monly regarded  as  the  one  and  indispensable 
symbol  of  contemptuous  pride  and  defiance, 
would  have  been  impossible.  Never  hysterical 
or  restless,  he  signified  each  passing  emotion  by 
the  freest  play  of  gesture  and  facial  expression, 
but  every  movement  and  attitude  emphasized  the 
inherent  self-reliant,  intolerant,  and  imperious 
nature  of  the  man.  In  his  volcanic  explosions 

262 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

of  passion  and  his  moments  of  simple  pathos, 
he  was  ever  mindful  of  his  dignity.  Before  every- 
thing else,  he  was  the  invincible  warrior.  It  was 
evident  that  his  contempt  for  the  mob  sprang 
chiefly  not  from  pride  of  rank,  but  scorn  of  their 
cowardice  and  sense  of  his  own  moral  and  physi- 
cal superiority.  His  unwillingness  to  beg  favors 
of  them  was  because  of  his  honest  disgust  at  the 
idea  of  boasting  of  a  courage  which  in  his  eyes 
was  no  virtue  at  all,  but  the  natural  inheritance 
of  every  proper  man.  He  rushed  into  the  rabble 
and  dispersed  it,  like  a  veritable  eagle  fluttering 
the  dove-cotes,  and  shook  with  laughter  at  the 
angry  demonstrations  which  alarmed  his  friends. 
The  performance  was  so  full  of  bold  strokes 
and  delicate  beauties  that  only  a  detached  review 
could  do  it  full  justice.  A  few  of  the  most  strik- 
ing features  may  be  mentioned.  One  wonderful 
effect  was  created  in  the  scene  when  his  wife, 
mother  and  friends  implored  him  to  yield  to  the 
demands  of  the  plebs.  The  subtlety  and  veracity 
of  his  suggestion  of  the  suppressed  torture  of  a 
haughty  spirit  schooling  itself  to  accept  proffered 
humiliation  constituted  an  amazing  exhibition  of 
emotional  imagination  and  executive  artistry, 
while  the  outburst  of  fury  which  preceded  his 
final  submission  was  one  of  the  most  startling 


253 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

that  even  he  had  ever  enacted.  The  ensuing 
scene  in  the  forum  was  superb  from  start  to  fin- 
ish, and  the  culmination  of  it,  where,  his  pent-up 
wrath  bursting  all  the  bonds  of  patience,  he  thun- 
dered out  his  defiance,  towering  among  the  crowd 
like  a  giant  among  the  pigmies,  created  an  enthu- 
siasm among  the  spectators  akin  to  that  which 
used  to  follow  his  appalling  assault  upon  lago, 
or  his  marvelous  death  scene  in  "La  Morte 
Civile. " 

In  wonderful  contrast  with  this  was  the  virile 
but  moving  pathos  of  his  farewell  to  his  assem- 
bled family  after  the  decree  of  banishment  pro- 
nounced against  him,  and  the  fine  dignity,  with 
its  undertone  of  personal  anguish,  with  which  he 
accepted  the  greetings  of  the  Volscian  general, 
Aufidius.  Another  extraordinary,  but  altogether 
different  manifestation  of  internal  emotion,  with 
an  effect  out  of  all  proportion  to  the  apparent 
simplicity  of  the  means  employed,  was  afforded 
during  his  reception  of  the  Roman  suppliants  in 
the  Volscian  camp,  culminating  in  another  tre- 
mendous explosion  of  wrath  against  Aufidius. 
The  whole  impersonation  was  a  masterpiece, 
worthy  of  a  conspicuous  place  in  any  list  of  Sal- 
vini's  creations,  which  collectively  constitute  the 
most  wonderful  histrionic  achievement  of  mod- 
ern times. 

254 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

After  ' '  Coriolanus, "  which  was  less  successful 
with  the  general  public  than  it  might  have  been 
if  it  had  been  treated  with  greater  fairness,  cor- 
diality, and  discernment  in  the  daily  press,  Sal- 
vini  appeared  many  times  as  Othello,  Samson, 
Niger,  and  Conrad,  but  only  undertook  one  new 
character,  the  Ghost  in  "Hamlet."  That  was 
during  his  brief  engagement  in  1886  with  Edwin 
Booth.  The  joint  appearance  of  two  such  famous 
p]ayers  was,  of  course,  a  remarkable  theatrical 
event.  It  occurred  in  the  Academy  of  Music, 
and  attracted,  perhaps,  the  largest  and  most  dis- 
tinguished audiences  that  ever  assembled  within 
the  walls  of  that  famous  old  house.  They  acted 
together  first  in  "Othello,"  and  expectation  was 
on  tiptoe  to  see  the  greatest  of  lagos  and  the 
greatest  of  Moors  in  artistic  rivalry.  On  the 
opening  night,  unhappily,  Mr.  Booth  was  not  at 
his  best.  In  the  opening  scenes  he  acted  with  his 
usual  skill,  verve,  and  diabolic  intensity,  and  the 
responsive  cooperation  of  the  protagonists  was 
a  delightful  study;  but  in  the  critical  scene  of 
Othello's  assault  upon  him,  overcome  by  nerv- 
ous strain  or  temporary  indisposition,  his 
strength  failed  him,  and  he  nearly  fell  headlong 
into  the  orchestra.  Only  Salvini's  great  strength 
and  presence  of  mind  prevented  a  fiasco.  Sup- 
porting his  associate,  he  kept  on  acting  as  if  noth- 

255 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

ing  was  wrong,  and  contrived  to  finish  the  act 
without  irreparable   disaster. 

In  " Hamlet"  Mr.  Booth  was  himself  again, 
and  played  the  Prince  as  no  one  bnt  himself  has 
played  it  within  living  memory.  But  the  repre- 
sentation, as  a  whole,  though  a  good  one  in  many 
respects,  brought  disappointment  to  many  Shake- 
spearean students.  In  the  first  instance,  Salvini 
had  volunteered  to  play  the  King,  a  part  which, 
in  recent  times  at  least,  has  never  found  a  really 
competent  actor.  The  reason  is  not  far  to  seek. 
Actually  the  character  is  one  requiring  first-class 
ability  for  its  proper  interpretation.  It  is  far 
more  exacting  in  its  complications  of  motives  and 
emotions — though  less  difficult  of  comprehension 
— than  the  part  of  the  Prince  himself,  in  which, 
as  has  been  said,  no  actor  of  moderate  capacity 
ever  failed  completely.  Hamlet  has  an  inalien- 
able fascination  of  his  own,  which  provides  a  sort 
of  insurance  for  the  actor,  but  the  King  is  not 
only  a  difficult  but  a  repellent  character,  which 
offers  the  poor  player  little  assistance.  Few 
persons  realize  the  enormous  histrionic  possibili- 
ties inherent  in  him.  When  Salvini  was  asked 
what  character  he  would  play  in  " Hamlet,"  he 
replied,  "I  will  play  either  ze  King  or  ze  Ghost." 
Accordingly,  he  was  cast  for  the  King,  and,  be- 
yond all  question,  his  performance  of  it  would 

256 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

have  amounted  to  a  revelation  of  the  dramatic 
energy  latent  in  the  part  and  its  true  importance, 
generally  unsuspected,  in  the  whole  scheme  of 
the  tragedy.  But  soon  he  changed  his  mind, 
probably  on  account  of  an  unwillingness  to  en- 
danger his  reputation  by  undertaking  a  character 
of  this  description  at  such  short  notice,  and  an- 
nounced that  he  would  play  the  G-host,  with 
whose  lines  and  business  he  was,  of  course,  en- 
tirely familiar.  He  attempted  no  innovations, 
playing  the  part  upon  strictly  conventional  lines, 
but  no  one  who  witnessed  his  performance  will 
forget  the  organ-like  roll  of  his  declamation  or 
the  majesty  of  his  port.  No  more  solemn  or 
imposing  specter  ever  revisited  the  glimpses  of 
the  theatrical  moon.  Well  might  Hamlet  say, 
"We  shall  not  look  upon  his  like  again." 

In  any  record,  however  brief  and  arbitrary,  of 
the  closing  years  of  the  nineteenth  century  in 
the  New  York  theaters,  the  name  of  Lester  Wai- 
lack  must  have  a  place.  To  the  last  he  preserved 
his  prestige  as  one  of  the  most  brilliant  exponents 
of  romantic  comedy,  but  the  end  of  his  career 
was  less  fortunate  than  the  beginning.  Health 
and  fortune  both  failed  him,  and  his  star  paled. 
He  survived  many  of  the  associates  who  had 
shared  the  glories  of  his  prime ;  others  abandoned 
his  standard,  and  he  was  unable  to  replace  them  by 

257 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

equivalent  substitutes.  But  his  company,  though 
it  suffered  from  dry-rot,  always  contained  much 
excellent  material,  and  acquitted  itself  creditably 
in  standard  plays  long  after  he  was  unable  to 
lead  it  in  person.  Many  of  his  disastrous  failures 
were  due  to  a  mistaken  choice  of  plays — not  to 
any  inadequacy  on  the  part  of  the  performers.  A 
case  in  point  was  the  "Impulse,"  of  B.  C.  Ste- 
phenson — produced  in  1885 — a  piece  full  of  the- 
atrical situations,  but  wholly  incredible  in  action 
and  unsympathetic  in  its  general  character.  It 
had  a  certain  success  in  London,  owing  to  a  bril- 
liant performance  of  the  principal  female  char- 
acter, which  was  not  duplicated  here.  Mr.  Wai- 
lack — who  was  not  immune  to  the  besetting  weak- 
ness of  actor-managers — produced  it  because  he 
discerned  in  the  figure  of  Colonel  Crichton  a  part 
peculiarly  well  suited  to  himself.  This  was  a 
gentleman  bashful  before  the  fair  sex — Mr.  Wai- 
lack's  Charles  Marlow  was  one  of  his  happiest 
embodiments — somewhat  slow  in  perception  and 
speech,  but  brave  and  prompt  in  deed,  tender, 
true,  and  chivalrous.  He  was,  in  short,  the  god 
in  the  machine,  dominating  the  entire  action,  and 
disposing  of  every  crisis  by  virtue  of  his  infalli- 
bility as  guide,  censor,  and  arbiter.  In  such  a 
character  Wallack  was  in  his  element,  and  he 
enacted  it  with  unflagging  spirit,  brilliancy,  and 

258 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

ease,  giving  temporary  vitality  and  distinction  to 
one  of  the  most  conventional  and  familiar  of 
stage  puppets. 

His  efforts,  however,  availed  nothing  to  save 
the  play,  which  was  soon  withdrawn,  to  be  suc- 
ceeded by  ' i  Diplomacy, ' '  in  which  he  resumed  his 
old  character  of  Henry  Beauclerc.  By  this  time 
he  was  somewhat  mature  and  heavy  for  the  part 
of  the  astute  young  diplomat,  but  his  handsome 
presence,  his  authoritative  style,  and  his  com- 
plete mastery  of  theatrical  resource  stood  him  in 
good  stead,  and  he  carried  off  the  chief  hon- 
ors of  the  evening,  although  closely  pressed  by  the 
Zicka  of  Rose  Coghlan,  always  a  fine  piece  of 
work.  This,  perhaps,  was  the  last  performance 
which  was  really  worthy  of  his  best  days.  He 
reappeared  in  "The  Captain  of  the  Watch,"  a 
little  piece  of  light  comedy  in  which  he  never  had 
a  rival,  and  as  Colonel  White  in  "Home,"  and 
soon  afterward  revived  his  own  farcical  comedy 
of  "Central  Park,"  a  triviality  which  had  aged 
a  century  in  less  than  a  generation.  In  his 
youth  he  had  triumphed  in  it  by  the  sheer  force 
of  animal  spirits  and  personal  fascination.  Those 
were  the  days  when  his  walks  abroad  were  at- 
tended by  bevies  of  secretly  adoring  women. 
Now  he  was  no  longer  the  dazzling  Adonis,  and 
the  art  of  his  autumn  could  not  compensate  for 

259 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

the  perished  charms  of  his  spring.  Nor  was 
there  any  dramatic  substance  to  the  play  itself, 
which  failed  dismally  and  inevitably. 

The  final  curtain  for  him  was  not  far  off.  For 
two  or  three  years  a  disabled  leg  kept  him  from 
the  stage,  although  he  still  retained  a  considerable 
amount  of  bodily  vigor.  One  more  night  of  per- 
sonal triumph  awaited  him.  That  occurred  in 
May,  1888,  when  a  public  benefit  was  tendered 
to  him  in  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House.  The 
scene  was  one  long  to  be  remembered,  and  must 
be  reckoned  among  the  most  striking  testimonials 
of  popular  esteem  ever  offered  to  an  actor. 
Every  class  in  the  community  was  represented  in 
the  enormous  audience,  which  filled  every  cranny 
in  the  vast  interior.  The  play  was  "Hamlet," 
and  the  theatrical  profession,  eager  to  do  honor 
to  one  of  its  most  eminent  members,  contributed 
one  of  the  most  notable  casts  ever  selected  for 
the  interpretation  of  the  tragedy.  A  "star  cast" 
does  not  necessarily  mean  much.  Too  often  it  is 
nothing  but  an  aggregation  of  popular  players, 
sufficiently  capable  in  their  own  particular  lines 
of  business,  but  unaccustomed  to  each  other,  and 
not  specially  well  fitted  to  the  parts  to  which 
they  may  have  been  assigned,  chiefly  with  refer- 
ence to  their  own  professional  standing.  But  in 
this  case  the  parts  were  distributed  with  the  view 

260 


LESTER  WALLACK 


of  securing  the  best  possible  performance,  and 
the  result  was  one  of  the  most  capable  and  inter- 
esting representations  of  the  tragedy  ever  seen 
in  this  city.  Edwin  Booth  was  the  Prince,  and  at 
first  appeared  somewhat  listless,  displaying  only 
the  mechanical  smoothness  begotten  of  a  thou- 
sand rehearsals.  But  this  attitude  of  easy  assur- 
ance soon  vanished.  Modjeska  was  the  Ophelia, 
and  instantly  made  it  apparent  that  her  imper- 
sonation was  to  be  one  of  no  common  note.  As 
she  stepped  upon  the  stage  the  delicate  grace  of 
her  presence  created  a  general  rustle  of  ex- 
pectancy among  the  spectators,  and  thereafter 
her  every  gesture  and  utterance  were  followed 
with  eager  appreciation.  For  once  the  heroine 
of  the  drama  assumed  her  proper  significance. 
She  was  no  longer  a  mere  symbol  of  sweetly 
pathetic  girlish  insipidity,  but  a  live  woman, 
modest,  gentle,  and  a  trifle  distraught,  as  if  con- 
scious of  a  secret  burthen,  but  quick  in  intelli- 
gence, alert  in  manner,  with  a  sparkle  in  her  eyes, 
and  warm  blood  coursing  through  her  veins.  She 
was  an  object  not  only  of  sympathy,  but  of  ad- 
miration. The  applause  lavished  upon  her  acted 
like  a  tonic  upon  Mr.  Booth,  too  long  accustomed 
to  regard  his  Ophelias  as  subservient  instruments 
for  the  Prince  to  play  upon,  and  quickly  his  act- 
ing began  to  glow  with  all  the  fire  of  his  earlier 

2G1 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

years.  His  Hamlet  was  always  exquisite  in  read- 
ing, subtle  in  byplay,  and  flawlessly  smooth  in 
execution,  but  the  challenge  of  so  great  an  actress 
as  Modjeska  put  new  spurs  to  his  intent,  and  he 
played  with  unwonted  concentration,  energy,  and 
spirit.  He  probably  never  again  acted  the  part 
so  finely.  In  the  renunciation  scene  he  excelled 
himself,  being  put,  indeed,  to  his  utmost  mettle 
by  the  additional  tensity  which  the  responsive, 
picturesque,  and  eloquent  acting  of  Modjeska 
imparted  to  the  situation.  This  particular  epi- 
sode had  never  been  interpreted  so  effectively 
since  the  days  of  Fechter  and  Kate  Terry,  and 
it  provoked  a  storm  of  enthusiasm  in  which  the 
players  divided  the  honors. 

In  her  mad  scene  Modjeska  had  her  own  per- 
sonal triumph.  She  had  prepared  the  way  for  it 
by  her  subtle  but  definite  manifestations  of  genu- 
ine love  for  Hamlet,  which  enabled  her  to  deepen 
the  pathos  of  her  disjointed  utterances  with  a 
note  of  wrecked  passion.  The  variety  of  her 
tone,  gesture,  and  expression  was  extraordinary, 
and  it  would  scarcely  be  extravagant  to  speak  of 
her  performance  as  an  original  inspiration.  It 
was  fashioned,  of  course,  upon  traditional  mod- 
els, but  in  freshness,  vitality,  and  felicity  of  de- 
tail was  superior  to  all  of  them.  Lawrence  Bar- 
rett enacted  the  Ghost  with  impressive  dignity 

262 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

and  sonorous  declamation.  Frank  Mayo  was  over- 
weighted in  the  part  of  the  King,  but -acquitted 
himself  respectably,  while  Gertrude  Kellogg  did 
excellently  as  the  Queen.  Eben  Plympton  filled 
the  part  of  Laertes  with  notable  fire  and  passion, 
and  old  John  Gilbert  was  an  admirable  Polonius, 
free  from  all  buffoonery,  slow  in  wit,  and  porten- 
tous in  speech,  but  venerable  withal,  courtly,  and, 
within  certain  limitations,  shrewdly  wise.  Joseph 
Wheelock  gave  notable  effect  to  the  bombast  of 
the  First  Actor,  and  Eose  Coghlan  made  a  figure 
of  the  Player  Queen. 

And  then  there  was  the  delightful  First  Grave 
Digger  of  Joseph  Jefferson.  The  actor  made  no 
effort  to  disguise  his  personality,  but  fitted  the 
character  perfectly,  filling  the  lines  with  his  own 
natural  humor,  and  illustrating  it  with  the  hap- 
piest of  byplay.  As  his  companion  Digger,  W. 
J.  Florence  had  very  little  opportunity,  but  out 
of  it  made  a  perfect  little  character  sketch.  The 
world  will  be  considerably  older  before  another 
such  worthy  representation  of  "Hamlet"  is  wit- 
nessed. It  was  a  memorable  evening,  of  which 
the  culmination  came  when  Lester  Wallack,  white- 
haired,  stalwart,  and  handsome,  was  revealed 
standing  by  a  bank  of  flowers.  With  all  his  usual 
sense  of  stage  effect  he  expressed  his  grateful 
appreciation  of  the  honor  conferred  upon  him, 

263 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

and  his  determination  to  court  public  favor  once 
more  before  the  footlights,  as  soon  as  his  "  rebel- 
lious limb"  had  been  reduced  to  subjection.  Not 
many  months  later  he  was  laid  in  his  grave. 


264 


MODJESKA  AND  RISTORI 

MODJESKA  was  an  ornament  to  the  New  York 
stage,  at  intervals,  for  many  years,  and  she  be- 
came a  popular  favorite  from  Maine  to  Califor- 
nia. Her  performances  as  Adrienne,  Camille, 
Juliet,  Viola,  and  Eosalind  have  been  described 
in  the  first  part  of  these  memoirs,  and  it  is  un- 
necessary to  revert  to  them.  But  she  played 
many  other  parts,  not  all  of  equal  importance, 
which  demonstrated  the  great  range  of  her  abili- 
ties. In  1886  she  appeared  in  "Les  Chouans," 
a  romantic  melodrama,  adapted  by  Paul  M.  Pot- 
ter from  a  piece  which  Pierre  Berton  had  made 
out  of  material  in  Balzac's  story.  Dramatically 
and  artistically  it  was  rubbish,  but  it  was 
crammed  with  theatrical  sensations.  Modjeska 
had  the  part  of  a  woman  who  fell  desperately  in 
love  with  the  man  whom  she  had  agreed  to  be- 
tray, was  wrongfully  suspected  and  abominably 
maltreated  by  him,  and  finally,  after  reconcilia- 
tion and  innumerable  trials,  was  shot  down  in  an 
attempt  to  rescue  him.  Only  her  acting  redeemed 

265 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

the  piece  from  absolute  futility.  She  proved  her- 
self as  capable  of  melodramatic  emotional  expres- 
sion as  Bernhardt  herself.  In  scenes  of  love, 
grief,  terror,  indignation,  and  rage  she  exhibited 
every  phase  of  passionate  tenderness,  abject  mis- 
ery, hauteur,  and  stormy  passion,  revealing  a 
physical  vigor  surprising  in  a  woman  of  her 
slender  form.  She  invested  the  violent  episodes 
with  an  atmosphere  of  romance  which  gave  them 
picturesqueness  and  plausibility.  Next  she  pro- 
duced an  English  version  of  a  drama  by  the  Ger- 
man dramatist,  Philippi.  As  Daniela,  the  hero- 
ine, she  played  the  part  of  a  virtuous  wife  who 
incurred  the  suspicions  of  the  husband  for  whose 
sake  she  was  sacrificing  herself.  The  theme, 
which  has  been  treated  since  in  a  modified  form 
by  Pinero,  is  of  no  importance,  but  it  afforded 
the  actress  an  opportunity  of  showing  the  ease 
with  which  she  could  turn  from  the  extravagance 
of  melodrama  to  the  naturalism  of  serious  domes- 
tic comedy.  She  was  equally  effective  as  the  lov- 
ing wife  and  the  outraged  woman,  being  espe- 
cially impressive  in  her  moments  of  righteous 
anger  and  contemptuous  scorn. 

In  1888,  reverting  to  the  poetic  drama,  she 
made  her  first  appearance  in  this  city  in  the  char- 
acter of  Imogen  in  Shakespeare's  "Cymbeline." 
This  impersonation  can  not  be  accounted  among 

266 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

her  greatest  successes.  It  was  a  brilliant  sketch 
rather  than  a  completed  study.  But  it  bore  many 
marks  of  her  peculiar  genius.  As  the  young  wife 
laboring  under  the  sorrow  of  her  impending  sep- 
aration from  her  husband,  the  suggestion  of  silent 
suffering  in  her  pose  and  a  certain  indefinable 
air  of  purity  won  her  audience  at  once.  Her 
parting  from  Posthumus  was  instinct  with  fer- 
vent affection,  and  her  defense  of  him  against  the 
reproaches  of  Cymbeline  reflected  true  nobility 
of  soul.  Her  most  artistic  achievement,  perhaps, 
was  in  her  first  scene  with  lachimo.  Her  joyous 
excitement  over  the  reception  of  her  husband's 
letter,  the  innocent  bewilderment  with  which  she 
listened  to  the  tentative  insinuations  of  her 
tempter,  her  progressive  indignation  as  the  full 
significance  of  them  dawned  upon  her,  and  the 
splendid  burst  of  mingled  scorn  and  passion  with 
which  she  resented  the  supreme  outrage  to  her 
chastity  demonstrated  the  keenness  and  sureness 
of  her  artistic  perception  and  the  wealth  of  artis- 
tic resources  at  her  command.  In  no  other  part 
of  the  play  were  her  abilities  severely  taxed. 
There  was  simple  pathos  of  the  purest  kind  in 
the  scene  with  Pisanio  in  the  wood,  near  Milford 
Haven,  especially  during  her  perusal  of  the  mis- 
sive from  Posthumus  ordering  her  death,  and 
many  touches  of  delightful  comedy,  in  her  best 

267 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

manner — with  relapses  into  pathetic  tenderness — 
before  the  cave  of  Belarius,  but  the  revival  was 
only  partly  successful.  The  concluding  scenes 
were  mutilated  in  such  fashion  as  to  be  barely 
intelligible,  and  interest  in  them  flagged  in  spite 
of  her  utmost  endeavors.  The  whole  production, 
indeed,  with  the  exception  of  the  Leonatus  of 
Eben  Plympton,  which  was  excellent,  and  the 
Pisanio  of  Robert  Taber,  which  was  respectable, 
was  one  of  the  shabbiest  and  most  contemptible 
imaginable.  In  this  Modjeska  was  only  following 
the  evil  example  of  Edwin  Booth,  but  failed,  seem- 
ingly, to  reflect  that  the  latter  confined  himself,  for 
the  most  part,  to  plays  of  tried  popularity.  ' '  Cym- 
beline"  has  never  been  a  popular  play,  and  needs 
first-class  acting  to  make  it  effective.  It  met  with 
considerable  success  at  Sadler's  Wells,  when 
Phelps  often  played  Leonatus,  but  always  with 
a  company  of  good  players  behind  him.  Mod- 
jeska  was  too  intelligent  to  be  subject  to  the 
delusion  that  a  great  actor  shines  all  the  more  in 
contrast  with  the  dulness  of  his  associates.  The 
reverse  of  this  is  the  fact.  It  is  only  when  capa- 
bly supported  that  the  leading  actor  can  create 
his  best  effects.  Macready  was  forever  lament- 
ing the  ruin  of  his  finest  conceptions  by  the  in- 
eptitude of  his  subordinates. 
After  the  failure  of  * '  Cymbeline, "  Madame 

268 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Modjeska  essayed  the  hazardous  experiment  of  a 
production  of  "Measure  for  Measure,"  a  play 
which  had  been  absent  from  the  stage  for  many 
years.  She  was  tempted  to  it,  doubtless,  by  a 
desire  to  act  Isabella,  but  the  character  was  one 
with  which  she  proved  to  be  in  imperfect  sympa- 
thy. Curiously  enough,  considering  the  emo- 
tional eloquence  of  which  she  had  often  shown 
herself  capable,  she  did  not  seem  to  grasp  the 
true  nature  of  the  spiritual  torture  to  which 
Isabella  was  subjected.  Her  performance,  it  is 
almost  unnecessary  to  say,  was  not  deficient  in 
gracious  dignity,  personal  charm,  or  tender  feel- 
ing; but  it  was  lacking  in  energy  and  poignancy. 
She  did  herself  full  justice  only  in  her  denuncia- 
tion of  Angelo  upon  his  declaration  of  lawless 
passion.  Here  she  was  superb  in  gesture,  pose, 
and  spirit,  but  at  other  times,  in  comparison 
with  her  usual  brilliancy,  she  was  strangely  tame 
and  ineffective.  It  was  scarcely  worth  while  to 
risk  so  much  for  the  sake  of  one  moment  of 
triumph.  Actually  the  representation  was  chiefly 
notable  on  account  of  a  remarkable  bit  of  acting 
in  the  prison  scene  by  Eobert  Taber  as  Claudio.  In 
pleadingwith  his  sister  for  his  life  he  counterfeited 
a  paroxysm  of  groveling  fear  with  such  startling 
sincerity  and  realism  that  he  eclipsed  Modjeska 
herself  and  furnished  the  one  dramatic  sensation 

269 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

of  the  evening.  The  achievement,  not  so  diffi- 
cult a  one  as  it  may  have  seemed  to  the  unini- 
tiated, created  a  reputation  for  him  which,  unfor- 
tunately, he  did  not  live  long  enough  to  justify. 
By  the  revival  itself  nothing  was  accomplished 
for  the  benefit  of  the  public,  the  fame  of  the 
actress,  or  the  credit  of  Shakespeare.  The  expe- 
diency of  it  might  be  challenged  on  many  grounds. 
Obviously,  in  its  original  shape,  the  play  is  unfit 
for  representation  before  a  modern  audience,  but 
that  was  no  reason  why  it  should  have  been  man- 
gled with  such  savage  inexpertness.  The  expur- 
gation was  done  without  reference  to  cohesion, 
and  much  objectionable  and  unnecessary  matter 
was  retained.  Consequently,  the  general  result 
was  a  melancholy  and  indescribable  hodge-podge 
in  which  most  of  the  incapable  actors  floundered 
hopelessly.  Doubtless  Modjeska  obeyed  an  ar- 
tistic impulse  in  undertaking  an  unhackneyed 
Shakespearean  part,  of  much  literary  and  dra- 
matic value,  but  she  would  have  been  wiser  if  she 
had  entrusted  the  task  of  actual  production  to  a 
manager  of  greater  experience  and  discernment. 
She  soon  realized  her  mistake — although  she  re- 
peated it  with  no  better  fortune  seven  years  later 
— and  delighted  all  her  admirers  by  a  return  to 
Shakespearean  comedy,  presenting  herself  for 
the  first  time  as  Beatrice  in  "Much  Ado  About 

270 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Nothing. ' '  This  proved  a  companion  piece  to  her 
Eosalind,  although  not  quite  equal  to  that  exquis- 
ite embodiment.  In  physical  fascination,  brilliant 
intelligence,  and  artistic  resource  she  was  won- 
derfully well  equipped  for  that  glittering  and 
sterling  specimen  of  womanhood,  and  her  success 
in  it  was  immediate  and  lasting.  The  natural 
and  buoyant  grace  of  her  carriage,  her  mobile 
and  expressive  features,  her  mastery  of  apt  and 
animated  gesture,  and  her  marked  capacity  for 
bantering  humor  were  eminent  qualifications  for 
the  character.  In  the  rapier  play  of  wit  she  ac- 
quitted herself  with  admirable  dexterity,  deliver- 
ing her  point  with  penetrating  emphasis.  Arch, 
provocative,  alluring,  and  prickly,  she  was  a  be- 
witching creature. 

But  one  phase  of  the  character — and  that  typi- 
cal— she  missed  or  slurred.  In  her  intense  appre- 
ciation and  enjoyment  of  the  witty  shafts,  of 
which  she  had  a  quiverful,  she  failed  to  bring  into 
sufficient  relief  the  latent  strength — the  essential 
pride — of  Beatrice's  character.  There  was  noth- 
ing in  her  Beatrice  that  would  dishearten  or  hold 
at  bay  the  most  bashful  or  cautious  lover  who 
had  once  fallen  under  the  spell  of  her  enchant- 
ment. Her  satire  often  lacked  the  spice  of  ear- 
nestness to  give  it  sting.  It  was  conceived  too 
persistently  in  the  mood  of  girlish  merriment. 

271 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

She  did  not  catch  the  full  significance  of  "My 
Lady  Disdain."  There  were  moments  when  she 
forgot  her  dignity.  When,  for  instance,  she  was 
sent  "against  my  will"  to  bid  Benedick  come  to 
dinner,  she  yawned  elaborately  and  stretched  her- 
self, which  was  not  only  a  flagrant  breach  of 
good  manners  in  a  fine  lady  of  the  court,  but  an 
obvious  perversion  of  the  author's  intent.  Blem- 
ishes of  this  kind,  however,  were  exceedingly 
rare  in  an  impersonation  remarkable  for  its 
grace,  vivacity,  and  intellectual  distinction.  This 
particular  one  is  noted  because  of  its  inconsis- 
tency with  her  interpretation  of  the  church  scene 
in  which  the  true  Beatrice — with  all  the  finer 
womanhood  hidden  behind  her  mask — was  much 
more  vividly  presented,  although  even  here,  at  the 
crisis,  she  did  not  give  to  the  "Kill  Claudio"  all 
the  passionate  vehemence  of  which  she  had  often 
proved  herself  capable.  But  there  was  moving 
sincerity  in  her  championship  of  Hero — "Oh! 
on  my  soul,  my  cousin  is  belied!" — and  in  the 
closing  passages  with  Benedick,  with  their  sub- 
tle intermingling  of  varied  emotion — pity,  love, 
and  scorn — her  acting  was  brilliant.  Other  ac- 
tresses have  equalled  her  in  some  parts  of  the 
play,  and  excelled  her  in  others,  but  of  all  the 
Beatrices  I  have  seen  she  was  one  of  the  very 
best.  And  on  this  occasion  she  enjoyed  the  ad- 

272 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

vantages  of  a  fairly  competent  supporting  cast. 
Eben  Plympton  was  a  consistent  and  effective,  if 
somewhat  unimaginative,  Benedick,  laying  stress 
upon  his  soldierly  qualities  and  endowing  him 
with  sturdy  virility;  Robert  Taber  was  an  excel- 
lent Antonio,  and  William  F.  Owen  a  genuinely 
amusing  Dogberry. 

In  these  later  days  our  "stars"  are  content 
to  repeat  indefinitely  the  characters  in  which 
they  have  been  conspicuously  successful.  But 
Modjeska,  inspired  by  the  true  artistic  tempera- 
ment, was  always  seeking  to  enlarge  her  reper- 
tory and  win  triumphs  in  new  directions.  She 
was  ill  advised  when  in  1892  she  essayed  the 
part  of  Queen  Katharine,  and  especially  in  de- 
pending for  her  support  upon  a  cast  which  fell 
little  short  of  the  grotesque  in  its  absolute  unfit- 
ness.  Although  she  spoke  English  with  fluency,  she 
never  fully  overcame  her  foreign  intonation  and 
accent,  and  it  is  possible  that,  perfect  as  was  her 
comprehension  of  her  own  lines,  she  was  often 
unconscious  of  the  terrible  hash  that  some  of  her 
associates  were  making  of  theirs.  On  any  other 
ground  it  is  difficult  to  understand  how  she  could 
have  dreamed  of  success  in  presenting  "Henry 
VIII"  with  such  a  Wolsey  as  John  A.  Lane — one 
of  the  most  wooden  of  old-timers — or  such  a 
Buckingham  as  Beaumont  Smith,  not  to  allude 

273 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

to  subordinates  yet  more  direful.  Here  she  was 
repeating  the  errors  committed  in  "Cymbeline" 
and  " Measure  for  Measure."  It  is  unlikely  that 
even  with  the  most  favorable  surroundings  she 
could  have  succeeded  greatly  in  a  part  for  which 
she  was  not  well  suited  and  with  which  she  was 
not  in  full  sympathy.  In  royalty  of  mien,  grace 
of  manner,  and  womanly  pathos  she  fulfilled  all 
requirements,  but  the*  robuster  elements  in  the 
Queen's  nature — the  revolting  spirit  which  inten- 
sified the  tragedy  of  her  situation — eluded  her. 
The  portrait  she  presented  was  painted  with  skill 
and  some  insight,  but  needed  bolder  coloring  and 
firmer  outlines  to  make  it  vital.  In  the  "Lord 
Cardinal,  to  you  I  speak,"  and  the  "I  will  when 
you  are  humble,"  she  created  no  such  thrilling 
dramatic  effect  as  Charlotte  Cushman,  Mrs. 
Charles  Kean,  Miss  Atkinson,  and  other  actresses 
of  less  repute  made  at  these  points.  It  was  suf- 
fering womanhood  rather  than  tortured  majesty 
that  she  exemplified.  She  was  at  her  best  in  the 
death  scene,  which  she  made  beautifully  tender 
and  solemn,  but  the  impersonation  can  not  be  set 
down  among  her  greatest  histrionic  accomplish- 
ments. 

Genius  as  she  was,  she  was  not  exempt  from 
the  weaknesses  and  hallucinations  prevalent 
among  most  members  of  her  profession.  One 

274 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

of  these  is  the  delusion  that,  because  in  many 
good  and  popular  plays  there  are  violent  and  im- 
probable incidents,  an  aggregation  of  startling 
episodes,  without  reference  to  common  sense,  is 
the  essence  of  strong  drama.  She  must  have 
been  subject  to  it  when  she  ventured  to  produce, 
in  1895,  " Mistress  Betty,"  one  of  the  worst  speci- 
mens of  the  hack-work  of  the  late  Clyde  Fitch. 
The  obvious  motive  of  it  was  to  afford  her  an 
opportunity  of  displaying  the  infinite  variety  of 
her  histrionic  resources,  and  this,  in  a  way,  it  did. 
But  the  scheme  of  it  was  so  ridiculous  in  its  in- 
coherence and  disregard  of  human  nature  that  all 
the  conscientious  labors  of  Modjeska  to  rational- 
ize it  were  painfully  futile.  The  heroine  was  a 
great  actress,  who  married  a  duke,  only  to  dis- 
cover that  he  was  a  worthless  profligate,  in  love 
with  somebody  else.  So  she  leaves  him,  but  pres- 
ently returns  to  find  him  a  reformed  and  worthy 
character.  Therefore  she  proposes  to  forget  the 
past  and  resume  conjugal  relations.  But  he  ex- 
plains that  he  is  now  devoted  to  his  cousin,  where- 
upon, because  her  love  for  him  is  greater  than 
ever,  she  promises  to  disappear,  that  he  may  be 
free  to  marry  the  girl  of  his  choice.  This  sac- 
rifice he  is  too  noble  to  accept,  so  she  falsely 
tells  him  that  she  has  become  the  mistress  of  his 
bosom  friend,  Lord  Phillips,  and  when  that  inno- 

275 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

cent  gentleman  unexpectedly  appears  throws  her- 
self into  his  arms  with  a  repetition  of  her  lying 
confession.  Lord  Phillips  vigorously  denies  the 
soft  impeachment,  but  finally — whether  on  ac- 
count of  embarrassment  or  politeness  does  not 
much  matter — admits  the  truth  of  it,  and  carries 
her  off.  In  the  final  act  Betty  dies  mad,  solacing 
her  last  moments  by  rehearsing  fragments  of  the 
various  plays  in  which  she  had  been  famous. 
Modjeska's  acting  left  nothing  to  be  desired,  but 
the  prostitution  of  her  finished  art  in  such  miser- 
able trash  was  a  melancholy  spectacle. 

In  February,  1898,  Madame  Modjeska  opened 
a  short  engagement  in  the  Fifth  Avenue  Theater 
with  a  revival  of  "Mary  Stuart,"  a  play  asso- 
ciated with  many  of  her  earliest  triumphs.  The 
character  of  the  luckless  Queen — the  stage  char- 
acter, that  is — was  one  to  which  her  artistic 
temperament  and  method's  were  peculiarly  well 
adapted.  She  was  beginning  now  to  show  the 
signs  of  advancing  years.  The  electric  energy  of 
her  prime  was  diminishing,  but  the  cunning  of 
ripe  experience  more  than  compensated  any  loss 
of  physical  vigor.  Her  intellect  was  as  alert  and 
her  dramatic  instinct  as  sure  as  ever;  and  if  her 
execution  was,  in  a  certain  indefinable  way,  a  little 
less  sharp  and  instantaneous  than  of  yore,  it  re- 
tained all  its  suggestiveness,  appropriateness, 

276 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

and  charm.  It  is  only  in  really  great  acting, 
such  as  hers,  that  minor  details  cease  to  be  im- 
portant. In  the  case  of  ordinary  well-trained  but 
uninspired  performers  it  is  easy  to  note  even 
insignificant  delinquencies,  but  the  great  actor,  by 
establishing  complete  momentary  illusion,  so  daz- 
zles the  perception  that  all  sense  of  the  means 
employed  is  lost  in  recognition  of  the  effect.  She 
never  played  Mary  with  more  symmetrical 
beauty,  a  happier  combination  of  royal  dignity, 
feminine  charm,  and  poignant  pathos  than  in 
these  latter  days.  The  climax  of  scorn  and  fury 
to  which  she  attained  in  the  famous  encounter 
with  Elizabeth  was  magnificent,  and  her  approach 
to  it  through  various  gradations  of  emotions, 
ever  increasing  in  intensity,  as  her  imperious 
antagonist  proved  herself  impregnable  to  defer- 
ence, entreaty,  expostulation,  or  protest,  was  a 
wonderful  feat  of  artistic  calculation.  In  the 
closing  scenes,  the  parting  from  her  attendants, 
the  passage  with  Burleigh,  the  farewell  to  Leices- 
ter, and  her  final  exit  to  the  block,  the  spiritual 
elevation  and  unaffected  pathos  of  her  acting 
held  the  spectators  rapt  in  silence  and  dissolved 
in  tears.  On  the  whole,  her  impersonation  can 
be  ranked  with  those  of  Eistori  and  Janauschek. 
Both  these  actresses  excelled  her  in  the  highest 
flights  of  tragic  passion,  largely  owing  to  their 

277 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

possession  of  greater  physical  power,  but  neither 
of  them  was  her  equal  in  respect  to  romantic 
fascination. 

It  was  her  success  in  "Mary  Stuart,"  possi- 
bly, that  prompted  her  to  impersonate  another 
unfortunate  queen,  Marie  Antoinette,  in  a  pseudo- 
historical  drama  written  for  her  by  Clinton  Stu- 
art. The  piece  itself,  though  in  no  way  remark- 
able, was  a  respectable  effort,  and  not  unskilful  in 
its  dramatic  contrasts  between  the  frivolous  life  at 
Little  Trianon  and  the  sufferings  and  humiliations 
culminating  at  the  guillotine.  The  virtues  of  the 
heroine  were,  as  might  be  expected,  somewhat 
absurdly  exaggerated,  but  Mr.  Stuart  was  far 
more  fortunate  than  Clyde  Fitch  in  his  attempt  to 
provide  an  effective  vehicle  for  the  display  of 
Modjeska's  talents.  She  illuminated  the  some- 
what trivial  and  conventional  court  scenes  in  the 
opening  act  by  means  of  her  sparkling  byplay 
and  infectious  natural  humor  that  gave  special 
brilliancy  to  all  her  light  comedy  work.  Her 
mimicry  of  an  amateur  performer  was  a  delight- 
ful bit  of  refined  burlesque.  In  the  second  act, 
in  an  interview  with  Mirabeau — the  best  scene 
of  the  play — when  she  contended  vainly  for  her 
supposed  rights  as  Queen,  and  was  forced  by  the 
inexorable  logic  of  circumstances  to  make  hate- 
ful concessions,  she  exhibited  all  her  old  facility 

278 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

in  interpreting  a  variety  of  impulses  and  emo- 
tions— suspicion,  hauteur,  anger,  humiliation  and 
counterfeit  resignation.  She  addressed  an  angry 
mob  in  the  Tuileries  with  a  splendid  assumption 
of  queenly  dignity  and  courage,  exerted  all  her 
old  power  of  pathos  in  the  successive  incidents 
connected  with  the  trial  and  execution  of  her 
husband  and  herself,  and  afforded  one  of  her 
most  striking  exhibitions  of  superb  tragic  passion 
at  the  moment  when,  by  an  inhuman  decree,  she 
was  separated  from  the  Dauphin.  This  was 
her  one  great  chance  in  the  play,  which  might 
have  been  more  fruitful  in  this  respect,  and  she 
availed  herself  of  it  to  the  fullest.  Her  indi- 
vidual success  was  brilliant,  but,  as  was  often  the 
case,  she  was  badly  handicapped  by  the  poverty 
of  her  support,  and  especially  by  the  doleful  and 
woeful  Louis  of  Mr.  John  E.  Kellerd.  The  per- 
formance would  have  profited  much  if  the  exe- 
cution of  that  monarch  had  been  expedited. 

In  closing  this  sketch  of  an  actress  who  was 
undoubtedly  one  of  the  greatest  of  modern  times, 
it  is  only  necessary  to  refer  briefly  to  her  Lady 
Macbeth.  This  was  a  character  which  she  never 
could  fully  grasp  or  express.  The  formidable 
essence  of  it  was  foreign  to  her  nature  and  ap- 
parently beyond  her  power  of  perception.  She 
did  nothing  ill,  and  in  her  performance  there 

279 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

was  much  to  excite  interest  and  admiration,  but 
it  never  gripped  the  imagination  or  stirred  the 
pulse.  It  was  only  in  the  sleep-walking  scene, 
in  which  few  actresses  have  failed  completely, 
that  she  was  really  fine,  and  even  in  that  there 
was  something  wanting.  She  furnished  a  won- 
derful and  distressful  picture  of  remorseful  de- 
spair, but  she  stirred  feelings  of  pity  only,  not  of 
dread  and  horror.  It  was  in  the  forceful  and 
tragic  note  that  the  whole  embodiment  was  de- 
ficient. When  I  saw  it  for  the  last  time,  in  1900,  it 
did  not  diff er  materially  from  what  it  was  years  be- 
fore, although  it  had  gained  somewhat  in  smooth- 
ness and  consistency.  Again  she  was  miserably 
supported.  Her  Macbeth,  John  E.  Kellerd,  mur- 
dered many  things  besides  sleep.  But  even  when 
she  had  Edwin  Booth  for  the  Thane  she  was  not 
much  inspired  by  his  example.  It  was  plain  that 
the  part  was  one  with  which  she  had  little  affinity. 
Great  emotional  actress  as  she  was,  she  had  not 
the  vigor  or  the  impulse  for  tragedy  of  the  sever- 
est and  most  heroic  order.  It  was  in  comedy, 
social  or  romantic,  melodrama,  and  in  poetic 
romance  that  her  versatility,  imagination,  emo- 
tional eloquence,  and  almost  inexhaustible  artis- 
try were  manifested  most  triumphantly.  For 
many  years  she  was  the  brightest  feminine  orna- 
ment of  the  American  stage,  and  when  it  is 

280 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

remembered  that  she  played  in  what  was  not  her 
native  tongue,  and  often  amid  most  discouraging 
surroundings,  her  career  and  achievement  will 
appear  yet  more  remarkable. 

The  recent  reference  to  Ristori  suggests  that 
this  may  be  a  convenient  place  to  speak  of  her 
farewell  visit  to  this  country  in  the  winter  of 
1884-85.  Ten  years  before,  in  the  full  bloom  of 
her  genius,  with  an  Italian  company,  she  had 
appeared  in  New  York  in  a  series  of  the  char- 
acterizations that  had  won  for  her  an  almost 
world-wide  fame.  Then  every  tribute  of  critical 
and  popular  admiration  was  laid  at  her  feet.  In 
all  that  she  did  she  proved  herself  a  great  artist 
and  an  actress  of  the  first  rank,  although,  even 
in  her  most  exalted  moments,  she  never  suggested 
any  comparison  with  the  overwhelming  power  or 
astonishing  versatility  of  Salvini.  I  saw  all  those 
performances.  Her  Elizabeth  was  generally  ac- 
knowledged to  be  her  masterpiece,  and,  beyond 
question,  it  was  a  wonderful  feat  of  impersona- 
tion, embodying  the  popular  ideal  of  England's 
Virgin  Queen  with  extraordinary  felicity.  The 
haughty  carriage,  imperious  address,  fierce  tem- 
per, blunt  humor,  masculine  sagacity,  petty  van- 
ity, and  feminine  jealousy,  were  all  indicated 
with  surpassing  skill  and  blended  into  a  consis- 
tent whole  with  finished  artistry.  The  perform- 

281 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

ance  was  a  very  fine  one,  but  there  was  nothing 
in  it  significant  of  phenomenal  capacity.  I  re- 
member that  a  number  of  contemporary  com- 
mentators dilated  upon  the  scene,  which  has 
legendary,  if  not  historical,  warrant,  in  which  the 
Queen  dictates  two  dispatches  simultaneously 
while  maintaining  an  ordinary  conversation,  as 
an  extraordinary  demonstration  of  the  mental 
power  of  the  actress.  It  really  was  a  clever  piece 
of  acting,  but  the  credit  for  the  original  conceit 
belonged,  of  course,  to  the  dramatist,  Giacometti, 
who  invented  it.  But  the  fact  that  it  was  ac- 
corded to  Eistori,  who  simply  followed  the  stage 
directions  and  spoke  the  words  that  she  had 
learned  by  rote,  is  a  striking  indication  of  the 
success  with  which  she  identified  herself  with 
the  fictitious  character. 

It  was  an  evil  hour  in  which  she  permitted 
herself  to  be  tempted  to  repeat  in  English  the 
triumphs  she  had  won  in  her  native  Italian.  Pos- 
sibly she  was  influenced  by  the  example  of  Mod- 
jeska,  or  hoped  to  conquer  another  hemisphere 
like  Salvini.  But  the  latter,  wise  in  his  way  as 
Bernhardt  in  hers,  never  could  be  persuaded  to 
act  in  any  language  but  his  own.  He  did  agree, 
indeed,  to  a  polyglot  arrangement  in  itself  wholly 
indefensible,  but  was  able  to  silence  hostile  com- 
ment by  the  brilliancy  with  which  he  overcame 

282 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

all  obstacles.  Eistori,  however,  in  undertaking 
to  act  in  a  language  of  which  she  knew  little  or 
nothing,  and  which  she  was  too  old  to  acquire, 
voluntarily  accepted  a  fatal  handicap.  Nor  was 
this  the  only  difficulty  with  which  she  had  to  con- 
tend. The  public  was  apathetic,  and  her  man- 
agers, presumably  with  the  notion  of  making  a 
larger  profit  (it  is  pleasant  to  reflect  that  they 
must  have  lost  heavily),  engaged  for  her  support 
a  company  that  can  only  be  described  as  ex- 
ecrable. The  result  was  disastrous.  She  elected 
to  appear  first  as  Elizabeth,  and  must  have  been 
chilled  to  the  heart  when,  instead  of  the  vast, 
brilliant,  and  enthusiastic  audience  of  other  years, 
she  saw  before  her  a  beggarly  array  of  empty 
benches.  Whether  she  had  been  forgotten  by  her 
former  admirers,  or  they  were  fearful  of  shat- 
tering pleasing  illusions,  boots  not  to  inquire. 
She  was  deserted  even  by  her  compatriots. 

There  was  small  cause  for  wonder,  perhaps, 
at  the  enormous  difference  between  the  Eistori 
of  the  present  and  the  Eistori  of  the  past.  Not 
that  the  famous  Italian  revealed  any  symptoms 
of  decay  in  bodily  vigor  or  dramatic  aptitude. 
Her  presence  was  as  stalwart  and  handsome, 
her  voice  as  full  and  rich,  and  her  movements 
as  energetic  as  before,  but  her  acting  seemed  to 
have  been  bereft  of  its  most  salient  character- 

283 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

istics,  spontaneity,  subtlety,  finish,  and  fire.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  shackles  of  the  unfamiliar  Eng- 
lish— against  which  she  vainly  struggled — had  af- 
fected her  acting  faculties  with  a  pervading  and 
disabling  paralysis.  There  were  occasional 
gleams  of  the  ancient  fire,  in  the  scene  with 
Essex,  for  instance,  in  the  episode  of  signing 
Mary's  death  warrant,  and  again  in  the  defiance 
of  Spain — which  reverberated  with  patriotic 
spirit — but  the  impersonation,  in  its  entirety, 
was  colorless  and  ineffective  in  comparison  with 
that  of  the  preceding  decade.  She  was  no  more 
successful  when  she  made  her  second  essay  as 
Mary  Stuart.  Once  or  twice  she  recalled  memo- 
ries of  her  ancient  self,  as  in  the  encounter  with 
Elizabeth  at  Fotheringay,  and  in  the  dignified 
pathos  of  the  concluding  act,  but  compared  with 
her  earlier  impersonations  this  one  was  but  as 
the  shadow  of  a  shade.  Her  final  appearance  was 
made  as  Lady  Macbeth,  and  on  this  occasion,  for 
the  first  time,  she  was  greeted  by  an  audience 
of  respectable  size.  This  evidently  encouraged 
her,  for  in  the  great  crises  of  the  tragedy  she 
exhibited  flashes  of  the  power  which  had  once 
raised  thunders  of  applause.  It  is  possible  that 
if  she  had  played  in  Italian  she  might,  by  her 
own  unaided  prowess,  have  turned  defeat  into 
victory,  even  with  the  serio-comic  cast  which 

284 


w 

a 
< 

Q 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

was  not  the  least  of  her  impediments,  but  as  it 
was  she  was  crushed  and  dispirited  by  the  weight 
of  accumulated  misfortunes.  Seldom  has  a  great 
career  ended  so  sadly.  Perhaps  there  may  be  a 
modicum  of  consolation  in  the  thought  that  the 
collapse  was  not  due  to  senile  decay  of  mind  or 
body,  but  to  a  grievous  mistake  on  her  part  and 
the  greedy  and  foolish  mismanagement  of  her 
commercial  agents.  She  was  still  Ristori.  It  was 
not  a  case  of  the  veteran  lagging  superfluous 
upon  the  stage. 


285 


HENRY  IRVING  AND  ELLEN  TERRY 

HENRY  IRVING  and  Ellen  Terry  were  very  prom- 
inent figures  upon  the  New  York  stage  during 
the  last  fifteen  years  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
They  appeared  in  many  new  characters,  but  the 
enlargement  of  their  repertory  was  not  attended 
by  any  notable  development  of  their  histrionic 
powers,  but  rather  confirmed  the  partial  summary 
of  them  made  in  the  earlier  chapters  of  these 
notes.  It  will  not  be  necessary,  therefore,  in  a 
sketchy  narrative  of  this  sort  to  analyze  every 
fresh  performance  too  particularly.  In  1885,  they 
began  a  new  season  here  with  W.  G.  Wills 's  roman- 
tic melodrama,  *  *  Eugene  Aram, ' '  which  manifestly 
was  intended  to  furnish  Mr.  Irving  with  a  char- 
acter akin  to  that  of  Mathias  in  "The  Bells," 
which  was  so  nicely  suited  to  his  artistic  idio- 
syncrasies. He  already,  it  may  be  remembered, 
had  attracted  wide  attention  by  his  thrilling  reci- 
tation of  Hood's  poem  on  the  remorseful  school- 
master. In  his  play,  written  with  his  customary 
cleverness,  Mr.  Wills  sacrificed  every  considera- 
tion of  probability  and  truth  to  his  poetic  and 

286 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

dramatic,  or  rather  theatrical,  necessity.  He  pic- 
tured Aram  as  an  innocent  and  harmless  scholar, 
who,  in  a  paroxysm  of  righteous  fury,  under 
intense  provocation,  had  stricken  down  a  villain 
who  had  cruelly  betrayed  the  girl  with  whom  he 
was  in  love.  In  the  circumstances  it  was  not 
easy  to  believe  in  the  likelihood  of  a  remorse 
which  killed  the  homicide  in  the  end  after  tor- 
turing him  for  fifteen  years.  Moreover,  this  vio- 
lent modification  of  the  original  story  made  the 
terrible  influence  which  the  villain,  Houseman,  was 
supposed  to  exercise  over  his  victim  wholly  illogi- 
cal and  not  a  little  absurd.  The  play  carried  no 
conviction  with  it,  and  was  only  a  moderate  suc- 
cess in  spite  of  its  admirable  performance  and 
beautiful  setting. 

Irving,  as  usual,  was  more  successful  in  his 
suggestion  of  suppressed  than  in  his  utterance  of 
liberated  passion.  As  a  grave  lover,  plunged 
in  moody  melancholy,  he  played  with  charming 
refinement  and  delicacy,  but  he  was  most  im- 
pressive in  a  scene  with  his  evil  genius,  House- 
man, in  which  he  had  to  portray  the  triumph  of 
will  over  physical  terror  and  racking  anxiety,  and 
of  sheer  intellect  over  brutal  ruffianism.  His 
individual  mentality  was  ever  one  of  the  most 
potent  elements  in  Irving 's  acting.  This  was  most 
vividly  expressed  in  the  rigid  lines  of  his  resolute 

287 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

but  haggard  face  as  he  confronted  and  gradually 
overawed  his  burly  and  savage  adversary — por- 
trayed with  rugged  realism  by  Wenman — and 
the  mocking  laugh  with  which  he  proclaimed  his 
superiority,  when  the  battle  had  been  won,  was  a 
master  stroke  of  theatrical  art,  although  the  note 
of  victorious  rascality  sounded  in  it  was  scarcely 
in  full  accordance  with  the  supposed  nature  of 
the  man.  But  when  he  surrendered  himself  to  a 
paroxysm  of  remorse  he  resorted  to  exaggera- 
tions of  speech  and  gesture  which  bordered  so 
closely  on  burlesque  that  irrevent  observers  tit- 
tered. Nearly  all  his  tragic  or  semi-tragic  imper- 
sonations were  marred  by  hysterical  ineptitudes 
of  this  kind.  In  his  case  they  can  not  be  ascribed 
to  any  deficiency  in  artistic  intelligence.  I  believe 
that  they  were  largely  due  to  efforts  on  his  part 
to  produce  effects — clearly  conceived  in  his  own 
mind — which  he  had  not  the  muscular  or  vocal 
strength  to  realize.  Partly  they  were  abominable 
mannerisms,  as  were  some  of  his  elocutionary 
tricks.  Within  certain  limits  of  intensity  he  could 
simulate  hysterical  abandonment  with  indisput- 
able veracity.  A  notable  instance  of  this  was  his 
description  of  the  murder,  which  was  exceedingly 
well  done.  Ellen  Terry,  as  the  heroine,  was 
graceful,  charming,  and  sympathetic  in  her  own 
delightful  way. 

288 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

In  1887  Mr.  Irving  brought  to  this  country  the 
version  of  the  first  part  of  "Faust,"  which  W. 
G.  Wills  had  made  with  a  special  view  to  spec- 
tacle and  the  exhibition  of  his  Mephistopheles. 
Upon  this  production  he  had  lavished  every  form 
of  attraction  suggested  by  experience,  taste,  or 
liberality.  A  more  beautiful,  artistic,  or  imag- 
inative setting  has  rarely,  if  ever,  been  seen  upon 
the  stage.  Did  space  permit  it  would  be  pleasant 
to  dwell  upon  the  pictorial  qualities  of  such 
scenes  as  those  of  the  St.  Lorenz  Platz  and  the 
Bevels  of  the  Brocken.  In  these,  and  others,  the 
picturesque  realism  was  so  complete  that  no  fan- 
ciful symbolism  was  needed  to  reinforce  it.  Mr. 
Irving  was  accused,  in  some  quarters,  of  having 
sacrificed  some  of  his  professional  dignity  in 
adopting  commercial  methods  and  offering  gor- 
geous pictures  as  compensation  for  an  inferior 
play.  But  this  was  scarcely  fair.  The  play 
itself,  it  is  true,  was  not  very  precious,  either 
as  literature  or  drama,  but  it  was  founded  upon 
a  masterpiece,  and  was  neither  undignified  nor 
trivial.  At  the  worst,  it  was  a  play  which  was 
not  altogether  worthy  of  its  superlatively  rich 
setting.  The  Mephistopheles  of  Irving,  alone, 
would  have  made  it  worth  while.  This  was  not  a 
great  creation — the  part  itself  had  nothing  in 
common  with  the  Miltonic  fiend,  the  arch  enemy, 

289 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

of  faded  splendor  wan — but  it  was  extraordi- 
narily clever  and  interesting,  with  a  fine  flavor 
of  the  diabolic,  perfectly  consistent  in  its  sardonic 
humor  and  malignity  and  its  intellectual  alacrity. 
In  pose  and  action  it  was  constantly  indicative 
of  vast  and  persistent  energy,  while  in  facial  ex- 
pression it  was,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
singularly  eloquent.  The  invariable  expertness 
of  the  actor  in  giving  the  most  pregnant  empha- 
sis to  a  cynical  line  was  utilized  to  the  utmost  in 
this  character.  His  utterance  of  his  apostrophe 
regarding  Martha,  "I  wonder  where  she  will  go 
when  she  dies.  I  won't  have  her,"  was  delicious. 
The  ironical  malevolence  underlying  the  af- 
fected bonhomie  in  the  first  temptation  scene  of 
Faust,  finding  expression  in  the  steely  glitter  of 
his  observant  eyes  and  the  cruel  smile  flickering 
about  the  corners  of  his  implacable  lips,  was  full 
of  menace,  and  every  detail  of  his  byplay  as  he 
hungrily  watched  Margaret  in  her  chamber,  was 
most  subtly  conceived.  There  was  terrible  elo- 
quence in  the  furtive  twitching  of  his  fingers, 
when  he  placed  the  jewels  around  her  neck,  as 
if,  by  anticipation,  he  already  had  her  soul  in  his 
clutches.  There  was  weird  significance  in  the 
saturnine  gravity  of  his  wooing  scenes  with  Mar- 
tha, his  quietude  being  far  more  formidable  than 
his  occasional  outbursts  of  rage.  There  was  noth- 

290 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

ing  awful  in  his  "I'll  tear  you  all  to  pieces, "  or  in 
his  ' '  Hither  to  me ! "  when  he  made  his  final  exit 
with  Faust.  On  the  other  hand,  he  created  an 
effect  of  genuine  terror  when  he  abandoned  him- 
self to  a  fit  of  unearthly  laughter  in  the  Brocken 
scene.  In  this  outburst  of  savage  glee  there  was 
the  echo  of  an  unfathomable  despair  which  was 
truly  tragic.  It  was  an  intellectual  conception 
finely  executed. 

In  presence  this  Mephistopheles,  tall,  gaunt, 
active,  assured  in  poise,  and  with  keen,  ascetic 
face,  was  a  picturesque  figure  that  gripped  atten- 
tion. Never  for  an  instant  did  it  savor  of  the 
ordinary  or  of  burlesque.  It  was  from  first  to 
last  a  felicitous  embodiment  of  the  spirit  that 
denies,  and  had  nothing  in  common  with  the 
conventional  theatrical  demon,  even  where  the 
play  was  most  theatrical.  Always  intellectual, 
it  was  especially  notable  for  the  superfine  edge 
of  its  mockery.  As  for  Ellen  Terry,  she  was  a 
different  Margaret  from  any  ever  dreamed  of 
before,  but  one  of  exquisite  charm.  In  her  bed- 
room scene  her  assumption  of  girlish  youth  and 
complete  innocence  was  wonderful.  She  looked 
and  acted  as  a  virgin  of  eighteen.  I  can  think 
of  no  other  actress  who  could  have  interpreted 
this  episode  with  such  innocent  unconsciousness. 
Her  lovemaking  was  all  that  is  tender  and  grace- 

291 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

fill,  and  her  grief  most  pretty  and  pathetic.  She 
evoked  a  storm  of  applause  by  the  simple  kissing 
of  her  lover's  hand,  so  eloquent  was  the  gesture 
of  love  and  faith  and  sweet  submission.  In  the 
dungeon  scene  she  repeated  the  triumph  of  her 
Ophelia  and  virtually  by  identical  methods. 
George  Alexander  was  a  manly,  graceful,  and 
ardent  Faust. 

In  "The  Vicar  of  Wakefield"  ("Olivia")  of 
W.  G.  Wills,  which  he  produced  in  1888,  Mr.  Irv- 
ing won  one  of  his  greatest  popular  successes  in 
this  country.  This  he  owed  partly  to  the  appeal 
of  the  play  itself,  partly  to  the  generally  ad- 
mirable performance  of  it,  and  partly  to  the  artis- 
tic beauty  and  appropriateness  of  his  scenic 
accessories.  For  gorgeous  spectacle,  of  course, 
there  was  no  opportunity.  The  charm  and  value 
of  the  setting  resided  in  the  exquisite  fitness  and 
harmony  of  the  surroundings,  the  delicate  and 
unerring  perception  with  which  the  spirit  and 
atmosphere  of  the  homely  tale  were  caught  and 
preserved,  and  the  skill  with  which  every  minor 
detail  was  designed  to  heighten  and  maintain 
illusion.  Even  the  supernumeraries,  villagers,  and 
others  were  living,  sentient,  and  purposeful  crea- 
tures. Children  actually  played,  old  folk  gos- 
sipped,  the  younger  swains  paid  court  to  their 
chosen  fair,  and  on  all  sides  were  the  subdued  hum 

292 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

and  motion  of  real  life.  The  parlor  of  the  vicar- 
age— the  picture  lives  in  the  memory  like  some 
famous  old  canvas — was  perfect  in  tone  and  deco- 
ration, with  its  old  spinet,  chairs,  and  tables,  the 
fireplace  with  its  accoutrements,  the  latticed  win- 
dow with  its  cosy  recesses.  A  less  tactful  and 
dainty  manager  would  have  fallen  into  the  error 
of  overfurnishing,  but  there  was  neither  too  much 
nor  too  little,  just  enough  to  indicate  a  condition 
of  modest  ease.  A  companion  picture  was  pro- 
vided in  the  fourth  act,  where  the  good  doctor 
and  his  rescued  daughter  stepped  from  the  snow 
and  moonlight  without  into  the  darkness  of  the 
deserted  home.  It  is  worth  while,  even  at  this 
distance,  to  recall  the  pictorial  beauty  of  these 
incidents,  because,  in  their  veracity,  insight,  and 
significance,  they  illustrate  the  potentialities  of 
an  art  peculiar  to  the  stage,  but  very  rarely  ex- 
hibited in  its  perfection. 

The  performance,  as  a  whole,  was  worthy  of  its 
frame.  The  impersonation  of  the  Vicar  by 
Henry  Irving,  admirable  in  many  ways,  was 
marred  by  many  exasperating  blemishes.  In  the 
first  act  there  was  much  to  praise  and  little  to 
criticize.  Inevitable  curiosities  of  enunciation 
occurred  occasionally,  but  nothing  to  offend  seri- 
ously the  sensibilities  of  eyes  or  ears.  It  was 
not  wholly  the  Primrose  of  Goldsmith,  having  a 

293 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

tinge  of  melancholy  and  a  certain  scholastic  air 
not  usually  associated  with  the  idea  of  the  sim- 
ple, sturdy,  combative  country  parson,  but  it  was 
winning  in  its  gentle,  natural  dignity  and  pater- 
nal tenderness.  The  devoted  love  of  a  father 
for  a  favorite  daughter  could  scarcely  have  been 
indicated  more  eloquently  than  it  was  by  Mr. 
Irving  in  the  scenes  between  the  Vicar  and  Olivia. 
He  really  suggested  the  idolatry  for  which  he 
expected  to  be  punished  sooner  or  later.  But 
when  he  came  to  the  point  in  the  second  act  where 
he  was  called  upon  to  give  vent  to  the  rage  and 
anguish  with  which  his  heart  was  wrung,  when 
he  heard  of  that  beloved  child's  ruin,  he  failed 
to  rise  to  the  emergency.  Never  surely  did  virile 
rage  or  grief  manifest  itself  in  such  incoherent 
fashion.  All  the  poignancy  of  the  scene  was  de- 
stroyed by  the  transparent  artificiality  and  insin- 
cerity of  the  means  employed.  His  symbols  were 
arbitrary,  unnatural,  and  unintelligible.  Affec- 
tation so  inscrutable,  following  simplicity  so  con- 
vincing was  doubly  irritating.  He  made  amends 
for  much  of  this  in  the  third  act,  by  the  dignified 
restraint  of  his  rebuke  to  Thornhill,  in  which  he 
expressed,  with  infective  realism,  the  quiver  of  an 
emotion  too  deep  for  utterance,  and  by  his  touch- 
ing manifestation  of  compassionate  love  upon  the 
restoration  of  his  daughter.  The  Olivia  of  Ellen 

294 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Terry  was  endowed  with  all  the  indescribable 
personal  charm  of  her  personality.  It  was  the 
same  type  of  womanhood  which  she  had  presented 
many  times  before,  but  was  none  the  less  fresh 
because  of  its  familiarity.  In  airy  grace,  playful- 
ness, archness,  and  plaintive  melancholy  it  was 
bewitching,  but  it  stirred  no  true  chord  of  pas- 
sion or  despair.  The  most  memorable  feature  of 
it  was  the  ebullition  of  joy  with  which  she  re- 
ceived permission  from  her  betrayer  to  return 
to  her  home.  George  Alexander  played  Thorn- 
hill  with  skill  and  ability,  indicating  the  coarse  and 
selfish  nature  of  the  rake  with  sufficient  clear- 
ness, but  not  so  aggressively  as  to  deprive  him 
of  all  sympathy. 

No  other  actor — since  Macready,  at  any  rate — 
but  Irving  would  have  had  the  courage,  even  if 
he  had  the  capacity,  to  produce  the  "Becket"  of 
Lord  Tennyson.  He  was  attracted,  of  course, 
by  the  character  of  the  able,  bold,  and  ambitious 
priest,  which  was  in  many  ways  eminently  well 
suited  to  his  artistic  powers  and  temperament, 
but  would  not  venture  to  play  it  until  he  had  ob- 
tained permission  to  make  important  structural 
changes  in  a  work  but  ill-adapted  for  stage  rep- 
resentation. No  justification  is  needed  for  his  ef- 
fort to  reinforce  it  by  all  legitimate  spectacular 
means.  But  his  setting  was  not  of  the  flashy  or  con- 

295 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

ventional  kind.  In  tone,  in  drawing,  in  perspec- 
tive, and  in  architectural  and  chronological  accu- 
racy his  pictures  were  all  that  the  most  fastidious 
critic  could  desire.  They  supplemented,  but  did 
not  dominate,  the  play.  His  Becket,  although 
of  unequal  excellence,  was  a  noble  and  authori- 
tative performance.  His  mannerisms  grew  more 
persistent  and  aggressive  with  advancing  years, 
but  the  refinement  and  austerity  of  his  style 
(when  in  repose)  and  the  intellectual  and  ascetic 
cast  of  his  countenance  were  in  nice  harmony  with 
the  character  of  the  high-minded  and  imperious 
prelate.  He  was  at  his  best  in  the  earlier 
scenes,  as,  for  instance,  when  playing  at  chess 
with  the  King,  in  his  sympathetic  delivery  of 
the  pretty  passage  comparing  women  with  flow- 
ers, in  his  grave  reception  of  the  King's  confi- 
dences concerning  Eosamund,  and  in  his  attitude 
during  the  King's  offer  of  the  archbishopric. 
His  changed  manner  in  the  second  act,  when  the 
impulse  of  the  soldier  and  statesman  is  in  con- 
flict with  the  spiritual  enthusiasm  of  the  priest, 
revealed  his  thorough  comprehension  of  the  char- 
acter as  drawn  by  Tennyson,  and  nothing  could 
be  much  truer  or  more  pathetic  than  his  por- 
trayal of  utter  weariness  beneath  the  heavy  load 
of  a  double  responsibility.  Excellent  again  were 
his  delivery  of  the  fine  soliloquy  "Am  I  the 

296 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

man?",  his  paternal  treatment  of  Rosamund  and 
his  contemptuous  dismissal  of  Fitzurse.  In  all 
these  passages  his  choicest  abilities  were  dis- 
played. Very  noble  was  his  dauntless  bearing 
before  the  hostile  bishops  at  Northampton  Castle, 
but,  quite  characteristically,  in  the  more  exact- 
ing episodes  attending  the  King's  entry  and 
withdrawal,  he  had  recourse  to  some  of  his  worst 
tricks  of  speech  and  gesture.  In  the  fourth  act 
he  made  a  great  recovery.  Patient  endurance, 
indomitable  will,  and  spiritual  exaltation  were 
denoted  with  inspiring  effect  in  the  final  scene 
with  Rosamund,  in  the  encounter  with  the  mur- 
derous knights,  and  in  the  closing  interview  with 
John  of  Salisbury.  The  end  of  the  tragedy,  with 
its  superb  stage  management,  was  splendidly  im- 
pressive. As  Rosamund,  Ellen  Terry  was  a  crea- 
ture of  ethereal  loveliness  and  grace,  provoking 
tender  sympathy,  but  no  deeper  feeling.  Terriss 
was  good  as  the  King,  and  Jessie  Millward  filled 
Eleanor  with  vindictive  energy. 

In  December,  1893,  Mr.  Irving  produced 
"Henry  VIII,"  and  it  is  safe  to  say  that  no  such 
impressive  representation  of  the  play  had  been 
seen  before  in  this  country.  The  richness,  solid- 
ity, and  accuracy  of  the  settings,  the  splendor 
and  vitality  of  the  groupings,  and  the  level  excel- 
lence of  the  performance  all  contributed  to  its 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

artistic  and  educational  value.  Among  the  pic- 
tures which  remain  most  vividly  impressed  upon 
the  memory  are  the  dimly  lighted  hall  in  the 
palace  at  Bridewell,  whose  lofty  walls  and  gloomy 
aspect  lent  sinister  significance  to  the  dramatic 
encounter  of  the  Cardinal  and  his  predestined 
foe;  the  quaintly  decorated  council  chamber  in 
the  palace,  and  the  great  hall  at  York,  with  its 
golden  throne  and  canopy,  its  throng  of  gayly 
dressed  guests,  and  its  masked  dance,  one  of  the 
prettiest  old-time  measures  seen  on  the  stage  for 
many  a  day.  Particularly  fine  in  perspective, 
distance,  and  atmosphere  was  the  King's  Stairs, 
Westminister,  where  the  fated  Buckingham,  with 
the  broad  and  shining  river  and  a  distant  city 
at  his  back,  delivered  his  dying  speech  to  ani- 
mated groups  of  soldiers,  sheriffs,  and  civilians. 
No  less  remarkable  in  color  and  effect  was  the 
interior  at  Blackfriars,  with  the  Court  assembled 
for  the  trial  of  the  Queen.  On  the  left,  on  his 
throne,  sat  the  King,  in  full  pomp,  girded  by 
courtiers  and  attendants;  in  the  middle  fore- 
ground, around  a  long  table,  were  ranged  the  sec- 
retaries and  other  officials  in  their  robes;  on  the 
right  was  the  accused  Queen,  a  blaze  of  gold, 
jewels,  and  embroidery,  supported  by  her  house- 
hold; and  in  the  center,  on  a  raised  dais,  the 
dominating  presence  of  the  two  scarlet  Cardinals, 

298 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Wolsey  and  Campeius,  the  real  manipulators  of 
all  the  puppets  at  their  feet.  The  coronation 
procession  of  Anne  Bullen  furnished  another 
scene  of  extraordinary  spectacular  brilliancy, 
while  the  vision  of  angels  hovering  above  the 
dying  Katharine  was  a  transparency  of  rare  deli- 
cacy and  beauty. 

And  the  interpretation  of  the  play  was  worthy 
of  the  decoration  bestowed  upon  it.  The  Wolsey 
of  Irving,  virtually  an  original  conception,  pro- 
voked a  wide  diversity  of  critical  opinion  here 
and  in  England.  It  differed  radically  from  that 
of  most  of  his  famous  predecessors,  and  con- 
stantly challenged  attack  and  admiration.  Cer- 
tainly it  was  not  the  Wolsey  of  tradition,  but 
forceful  intellect  was  in  every  fiber  of  it.  Pic- 
torially  it  filled  the  stage  and  almost  monopolized 
the  attention  of  the  spectator.  Scarcely  an  in- 
stant passed  but  some  suggestive  look,  pose,  or 
gesture  gave  a  flash  of  illumination  to  the  dra- 
matic scene.  It  might  be  said  that  the  theatrical 
design  of  it  all  was  too  apparent.  Men  of  Wol- 
sey's  strong,  resolute,  and  intriguing  type  do  not 
wear  their  hearts  upon  their  sleeves  for  daws  to 
peck  at.  Moreover,  this  Wolsey  had  a  suppleness 
and  refinement  inconsistent  with  the  lowness  of 
his  origin  and  that  pugnacious  disposition  which 
induced  Buckingham  to  liken  him  to  a  butcher's 

299 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

cur,  by  which  he  probably  meant  either  a  mastiff 
or  a  bulldog.  The  real  Wolsey — unless  he  is 
much  belied — although  he  could  be  a  crafty  cour- 
tier, on  occasion,  rarely  laid  aside  the  arrogance 
commonly  associated  with  the  upstart.  And  this 
attitude  was  lacking  in  the  composition  of  Irv- 
ing's  Wolsey,  which  was  keen,  imperious,  inflexi- 
ble, unscrupulous,  sardonic,  and  capable,  but  not 
massive.  It  had  not  the  dogged  and  unhesitant 
impulse  denoted  in  the  text  and  in  Wolsey 's  bull- 
like  front  and  heavy  jowl.  Sometimes  it  was 
curiously  suggestive  of  Mephistopheles  playing 
priest  for  his  purposes.  But  it  was  consistent 
with  itself,  thoroughly  artistic  in  design,  and  exe- 
cuted with  infinite  delicacy  of  finish.  Altogether 
it  was  a  great  performance  and  a  fascinating  por- 
trait, notably  free  from  the  actor's  most  aggra- 
vating eccentricities.  In  the  closing  scenes  it  was 
finely  pathetic. 

The  Katharine  of  Ellen  Terry  excelled  expec- 
tation. It  had  not  the  somber  touch  of  tragedy 
that  should  ennoble  it,  but  it  was  womanly  to  the 
core  and  thoroughly  royal  in  deportment.  In 
the  trial  scene  her  appeal  to  the  King  was  deliv- 
ered with  beautiful  sincerity,  and  her  rebuke  to 
the  Cardinal,  if  not  electric,  was  exceedingly  ef- 
fective. In  the  interview  with  the  two  Cardi- 
nals she  displayed  an  unwonted  amount  of  dra- 

300 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

matic  energy,  and  her  death  scene  was  deeply 
moving,  without  any  excess  of  painful  realism. 
Considering  the  fact  that  the  part  lay  outside  her 
histrionic  frontiers,  she  must  be  credited  with 
an  artistic  triumph.  The  King  of  Terriss  was  a 
clever  effort,  boisterous  rather  than  strong,  and 
lacking  in  spontaneous  choler,  but  virile  and  pic- 
turesque. The  general  representation  set  a  stand- 
ard which  is  not  likely  to  be  attained,  or  ap- 
proached, in  the  near  future.* 

Two  years  later  Mr.  Irving,  greatly  daring, 
produced  "Macbeth."  As  an  artistic,  able,  and 
conscientious  manager  he  more  than  justified 
his  reputation;  as  an  actor  he  demonstrated  his 
insufficiency  in  parts  of  the  highest  tragic  import. 
Pictorially  his  representation  of  the  tragedy  was 
the  most  imaginative  and  impressive  of  modern 
times.  The  weird  sisters,  for  the  first  time  in 
many  a  weary  year,  became  unearthly  in  their 
vague  surroundings  of  elemental  confusion  and 
terror.  Never  substantial — like  the  ragged  scare- 
crows that  so  often  have  excited  derision — they 
came  and  vanished  in  the  air,  ghastly  vocal  shad- 
ows, outlined  in  sulphurous  fumes  by  flashes  of 
lightning  to  accompaniments  of  crashing  thunder. 
They  delivered  their  lines  with  all  proper  em- 
phasis and  appropriately  wild  gesture.  The  caul- 

*  It  has  not  been  approached  yet  (June,  1916), 
301 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

dron,  no  longer  a  gypsy  soup-kettle,  was  a  crater 
in  a  mountain  top,  from  whose  rugged  jaws  the 
apparitions  rose  with  slow  solemnity,  to  utter 
their  oracles  with  due  reverence  for  meter  and 
text.  Hecate  soared  in  space  with  the  chorus 
of  her  invisible  attendants  floating  around  her  in 
melodious  echoes.  The  mortal  incidents  were 
presented  with  equal  tact  and  comprehension. 
One  striking  picture  was  that  of  old  Duncan  at 
the  head  of  his  court,  listening  to  the  story  of 
the  wounded  sergeant,  while  the  bystanders  dis- 
cussed the  news  of  the  battle.  Another  was  the 
reception  of  the  King  at  the  entrance  to  Mac- 
beth's  castle,  where  the  train  of  princes,  nobles, 
and  soldiers  made  a  gallant  show,  as,  with  waving 
tartans  and  shining  steel,  they  followed  their 
aged  monarch  and  his  smiling  hostess,  to  be  swal- 
lowed up  in  the  recesses  behind  those  frowning 
portals.  Yet  a  third  was  the  banquet  hall  with 
its  long  row  of  guests  and  its  simple  and  novel 
arrangement  of  tables,  by  which  the  chair  of  the 
murdered  Banquo  and  the  raised  platform  of  the 
King  and  Queen  were  brought  into  the  same  line 
of  vision.  The  Ghost  itself  did  not  appear  in 
bodily  form,  but  was  represented  only  by  a  gleam 
of  light  upon  the  vacant  seat,  a  device  that  left 
more  scope  to  the  imagination  and  was  infinitely 
preferable  to  the  conventional  gashed  and  all  too 

302 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

manifestly  solid  specter.  The  closing  scenes, 
around  the  castle  of  Dunsinane,  with  their 
glimpses  of  savage  areas  beneath  dark  and 
threatening  skies,  touched  here  and  there  with 
the  fires  of  an  angry  sunset,  with  rushes  of 
armed  men  across  the  shadows,  were  in  the  nicest 
harmony  with  the  spirit  of  the  tragedy. 

With  a  Macbeth  of  heroic  dimensions  the  repre- 
sentation would  have  marked  an  epoch  in  the- 
atrical history.  Unfortunately,  this  was  wanting. 
In  no  other  character  that  he  assumed  did  Henry 
Irving  give  such  free  rein  to  the  eccentricities 
which  marred  so  many  of  his  most  ambitious 
efforts.  He  was  plainly  overweighted.  Con- 
scious, perhaps,  of  his  inability  to  impersonate 
the  heroical  elements  of  the  character,  he  relied 
upon  his  own  extraordinary  capacity  for  the  de- 
lineation of  the  physical  symptoms  of  rage,  fear 
and  despair  in  a  cowardly  and  guilty  soul.  His 
Macbeth  was  a  degenerate,  not  only  depraved 
but  contemptible,  a  creature  so  weak  as  to  be 
incapable  of  meditating  a  bold  and  ambitious 
stroke,  let  alone  executing  it.  His  conception 
of  the  part,  in  itself  inadmissible,  was  made  yet 
more  futile  by  the  frequent  incomprehensibility 
of  his  utterance.  In  some  of  his  more  passionate 
scenes  he  might  just  as  well  have  been  talking 
Volapiik.  To  the  eye  his  acting  was  often  vividly 

303 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

suggestive  and  illuminative.  The  play  of  his 
features  as  he  listened  to  the  promptings  of  his 
wife  and  his  own  evil  genius,  his  significant  ges- 
tures and  rapt  expression  while  tracing  the  flight 
of  the  air-drawn  dagger,  his  terror  at  the  Ghost, 
and  his  agony  of  despair  as  he  realized  the  jug- 
gling of  the  fiends,  were  marvels  of  pantomimic 
skill.  His  bearing  was  instinct  with  picturesque 
horror,  but  the  criminal  he  impersonated  was  of 
far  baser  fiber  than  Macbeth.  Ellen  Terry's  as- 
sumption of  the  guilty  Queen  was  intelligent  and 
intelligible,  but  she  was  wholly  out  of  her  depth. 
Mr.  Irving  made  ample  amends  for  the  com- 
parative fiasco  of  his  Macbeth  when  he  presented 
the  "King  Arthur"  of  Comyns  Carr.  This  was 
a  notable  essay  in  the  cause  of  romantic  drama. 
In  risking  comparison  with  Tennyson's  "Idyls  of 
the  King,"  Mr.  Carr  was  somewhat  adventur- 
ous, but  he  passed  the  ordeal  with  credit. 
His  play  was  not  a  great  one,  but  it  was  written 
in  fluent,  graceful,  and  often  imaginative  verse, 
told  an  interesting  story,  and  offered  opportuni- 
ties for  spectacular  illustration  of  which  Mr. 
Irving,  of  course,  did  not  fail  to  avail  himself. 
He  would  have  been  wiser,  perhaps,  if  he  had 
not  attempted  quite  so  much,  if  he  had  confined 
himself  to  some  of  the  more  familiar  episodes  in 
the  Arthurian  legends,  instead  of  trying  to  cover 

304 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

the  whole  period — from  Arthur's  acquirement  of 
Excalibur  to  his  death — but  he  succeeded  in  pro- 
ducing one  of  the  most  notable  poetic  dramas 
of  recent  years.  As  Arthur,  Henry  Irving  was 
seen  at  his  best.  The  plot  was  one  in  which 
his  intellect  and  imagination  had  free  play  and 
in  which  no  excessive  demand  was  made  upon  his 
physical  resources.  His  impersonation  was  at 
once  dignified,  romantic,  and  human,  full  of  spir- 
itual elevation,  lofty  resolution,  superb  courtesy, 
exquisite  tenderness,  and  complete  devotion.  Few 
executive  flaws  dimmed  the  beauty  of  the  design. 
His  voice  was  resonant,  his  elocution  crisp,  and 
the  rhythm  of  his  delivery  generally  admirable. 
Had  he  not,  on  many  occasions,  demonstrated  his 
elocutionary  skill,  so  much  insistence  upon  his 
frequent  eccentricities  in  utterance  would 
scarcely  have  been  justifiable.  His  acting  in  the 
prologue,  at  the  magic  mere,  left  little  to  be  de- 
sired. His  carriage  had  distinction,  his  gesture 
was  bold,  free,  and  majestic,  and  his  enunciation 
perfect.  He  fully  maintained  this  high  level 
of  excellence  through  the  first  act,  in  the  gallan- 
try of  his  bearing  toward  the  Queen,  in  the  king- 
liness  of  his  reception  and  dismissal  of  the 
Knights,  and  in  the  trustful  simplicity  of  his  love 
for  Lancelot.  At  the  supreme  moment  of  the 
revelation  of  Guinevere's  infidelity,  his  acting 

305 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

was  exceedingly  forceful  and  pathetic.  Mortal 
anguish  and  heroic  endurance  were  signified  in 
every  line  of  his  anguished  and  rigid  face  and  in 
every  note  of  his  grave  and  measured  speech.  The 
death  scene,  with  its  noble  resignation,  was  a  fit- 
ting climax  to  a  consistently  fine,  romantic,  and 
dramatic  achievement.  There  were  depths  in 
Guinevere  which  Ellen  Terry  could  not  fathom, 
but  she  made  a  lovely  and  gracious  figure.  Her 
suggestion,  in  the  early  scenes  with  the  King,  of 
the  struggle  in  her  heart  between  love  and  duty 
was  very  delicate  and  subtle,  and  her  beguilement 
of  Lancelot  into  a  confession  of  his  guilty  passion 
was  a  charming  bit  of  feminine  artifice,  while  her 
culminating  avalanche  of  womanly  feeling  was 
finely  sincere  and  spontaneous.  In  the  rendez- 
vous of  the  lovers  in  the  wood  the  ardor  of 
Lancelot,  beside  hers,  glowed  with  but  a  pale 
fire.  The  dignity  and  courage  she  displayed  in 
repulsing  the  traitor,  Mordred,  in  the  prison, 
were  altogether  queenlike. 

Toward  the  end  of  his  memorable  career, 
Henry  Irving  delighted  his  admirers  with  two 
little  studies — little  more  than  thumbnail  sketches 
— which  for  pure  artistry  must  be  accounted 
among  his  happier  achievements.  The  first  in 
order  was  that  of  Don  Quixote  in  a  two-act  piece 
by  W.  G-.  "Wills,  which  actually  was  a  bit  of  ex- 

306 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

travaganza.  With  the  immortal  satire  of  Cervan- 
tes it  had  only  the  most  shadowy  connection. 
Much  of  it  was  mere  horseplay,  but  Irving  made 
of  the  Knight  of  the  Sorrowful  Countenance  a 
portrait  worthy  of  a  much  more  dignified  and  per- 
manent setting.  Physically — the  resources  of  art 
emphasizing  some  natural  qualifications — the 
actor  presented  an  almost  ideal  embodiment  of 
this  famous  conception.  The  lean,  gaunt,  angular 
frame,  the  grave  and  wasted  visage,  the  solemn, 
almost  sepulchral,  dignity  of  voice  and  carriage 
were  reproduced  with  startling  fidelity — as  if,  by 
some  miracle,  one  of  Dore's  studies  had  been 
brought  to  life — but  all  this  was  simply  the  result 
of  mimetic  art.  The  real  greatness  of  the  imper- 
sonation consisted  in  the  lofty,  fanatical  spirit 
with  which  the  grotesque,  but  never  ridiculous, 
figure  was  illumined  and  ennobled.  There  were 
traces  of  this  spirit  in  Irving 's  finely  imagined 
Malvolio,  but  in  his  Don  Quixote  it  burned  with 
infinitely  more  brightness  and  power. 

The  ludicrous  externals  of  his  poor,  distraught 
knight,  all  denoted  with  realistic  accuracy,  became 
deeply  pathetic  in  the  light  of  his  intense  convic- 
tion, his  superb  vanity,  his  courtesy  exquisite  in 
spite  of  its  extravagance,  the  genuine  tenderness 
and  dauntless  chivalry  underlying  his  crazy  de- 
meanor. The  comic  and  the  sad  were  mingled  so 

307 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

dexterously  in  this  fragment  of  artistic  mockery, 
especially  in  the  opening  scenes,  that  the  spec- 
tator scarcely  knew  whether  to  pay  it  the  tribute 
of  laughter  or  tears.  Of  its  surpassing  merit  as 
acting,  wholly  apart  from  the  inspiration  in  the 
design,  there  can  be  no  question.  Throughout 
the  player  maintained  his  grip  upon  the  charac- 
ter, with  undeviating  consistency,  whether  indit- 
ing a  letter  to  Dulcinea,  reading  some  romantic 
legend,  unfolding  his  plans  of  campaign,  or  run- 
ning a  tilt  against  the  pump  which  did  duty  for 
a  windmill.  The  impersonation  was  an  histrionic 
gem. 

Worthy  to  mate  with  it  was  Irving 's  picture 
of  the  nonagenarian  corporal  who  had  won  a 
medal  at  Waterloo  for  driving  a  powder  wagon 
through  a  wall  of  fire.  For  this  opportunity  he 
was  indebted  to  the  pen  of  Conan  Doyle.  The 
piece  itself  was  a  trifle,  but  clever  in  its  swift 
summary  of  the  penalties  of  extreme  old  age- 
even  when  most  vigorous — the  loss  of  memory 
and  nerve,  the  querulousness,  garrulity,  selfish- 
ness, and  loneliness  accompanying  it.  Mr.  Irving, 
as  the  old  soldier,  made  a  study  of  the  homeliest 
realism,  which  was  in  the  broadest  possible  con- 
trast with  his  idealistic  portrait  of  the  Don. 
Marvelously  "made  up"  he  filled  in  Dr.  Doyle's 
outlines  with  minute,  almost  painful  veracity, 

308 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

with  innumerable  touches  of  grim  humor  and 
simple  pathos,  and  with  an  infallible  sense  of 
theatrical  effect.  In  all  the  details  of  senile 
speech  and  action  his  study  was  one  of  pre- 
Eaphaelite  precision.  The  very  filling  of  his 
pipe  was  effected  with  a  delicate  byplay  prompted 
by  the  closest  observation.  In  a  hundred  little 
ways  he  made  the  embodiment  vital.  His  inter- 
est in  a  passing  regiment,  his  amazement  at  a 
modern  breech-loader,  and  the  instinctive  but 
futile  efforts  to  rise  briskly  to  attention  upon  the 
entrance  of  a  superior  officer  were  instances  in 
point.  His  performance  was  full  of  patriotic 
and  sympathetic  appeal,  and  ended  with  a  most 
thrilling  effect.  The  old  man,  who,  unnoticed, 
had  fallen  into  a  doze,  began  dreaming  of  his 
Waterloo  exploit.  After  a  few  uneasy  motions, 
he  sprang  erect  and  soldierlike  to  his  feet,  with 
the  passionate  cry,  "The  guards  want  powder, 
and,  by  God,  they  shall  have  it!"  and  then  fell 
back  dead.  The  power  which  Mr.  Irving  put 
into  this  climax  was  electric. 

Some  mention  must  be  made  of  "Robespierre," 
which  Sardou,  in  his  later  days,  made  for  Henry 
Irving.  As  an  illustration  of  a  period  it  was 
superior  to  "Thermidor,"  "Madame  Sans  Gene," 
"Theodora,"  "Cleopatra,"  "Gismonda,"  and 
other  tailor-made  meces  to  which  the  illustrious 

309 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Frenchman  devoted  his  learning  and  ingenuity 
for  commercial  purposes,  but  its  value  was  almost 
purely  theatrical.  His  selection  of  Robespierre 
as  a  possible  vehicle  for  Irving  was  characteris- 
tically astute.  A  character  compounded  of  the 
most  contradictory  moral  and  intellectual  attri- 
butes, a  man  who  was  at  once  timid  and  auda- 
cious, bloodthirsty  and  philanthropic,  tender- 
hearted and  remorseless,  a  lofty  patriot  and  un- 
scrupulous tyrant,  a  patron  of  the  arts  and  a 
demagogic  politician,  a  poet  of  sentiment  and 
purveyor-general  to  the  guillotine,  was  suscepti- 
ble of  dramatic  development  in  any  direction  and 
adaptable  to  almost  any  conceivable  dramatic 
situation.  So  he  boldly  made  him  the  hero  of 
an  early  love  romance  and  endowed  him  with  a 
vast  latent  fund  of  paternal  affection.  This  was 
to  impart  to  him  the  human  interest  in  which 
he  was  deficient.  Then  he  made  him  the  domi- 
nant figure  in  incidents  closely  akin  to  those 
in  which  Irving  had  won  fame  in  "The  Bells," 
"Eugene  Aram,"  "Louis  XL,"  and  kindred 
plays.  Irving  had  only  to  repeat  himself,  and 
this  he  did,  with  his  usual  ability  and  his 
most  familiar  extravagances.  His  performance 
was  effective,  often  theatrically  brilliant,  but 
it  could  not  in  any  true  sense  be  called  a  new 
creation.  But  the  scenic  spectacle  which  he  pre- 
310 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

sented  was  superb  and  his  stage  management  as 
unimpeachable  as  ever. 

Ellen  Terry  won  a  personal  triumph  in  1889 
by  her  performance  of  Ellaline,  the  heroine  of 
Alfred  C.  Calmour's  poetic  play,  "The  Amber 
Heart."  This  is  a  dainty,  fanciful,  allegorical 
little  piece,  with  a  minimum  of  dramatic  sub- 
stance. The  story  is  of  a  lovely  maiden,  guarded 
against  love  by  an  amulet  which  she  throws  away. 
Left  defenseless,  she  is  wooed,  won,  and  betrayed, 
whereupon  she  meditates  suicide,  but,  recovering 
her  amulet,  is  restored  to  happiness.  The  charm 
is  wholly  imaginative,  poetical,  and  sympathetic, 
and  would  miscarry  hopelessly  in  the  hands  of 
almost  any  other  actress  than  Miss  Terry.  With 
her  delicate  art  she  endowed  Ellaline  with  all  the 
buoyancy  and  ingenuous  simplicity  of  the  fresh- 
est maidenhood.  The  slightest  hint  of  affectation 
or  dissimulation  would  have  been  ruinous.  But 
her  light-hearted,  frank,  and  guileless  girlishness 
was  so  natural,  her  manner  so  sprightly,  free, 
and  joyous,  that  it  was  easy  to  believe  in  the 
efficacy  of  her  amulet.  Nothing  could  be  prettier 
than  her  revelation  of  the  dawn  of  love  in  her 
breast,  or  more  winning  than  her  impulsive  but 
modest  surrender  to  the  ardent  Silvio.  Equally 
natural  was  her  denotement  of  the  silent  suffer- 
ing of  a  proud  but  gentle  heart  when  she  found 
herself  neglected  and  forsaken. 

311 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Her  appeal  to  her  recreant  lover  was  most 
moving  in  its  reproachfulness,  and  the  unselfish- 
ness of  it  was  admirably  emphasized  by  the  flash 
of  womanly  passion  provoked  by  the  taunts  of  her 
successful  and  ungenerous  rival.  Few,  indeed, 
are  the  actresses  of  to-day  who  could  hope  to 
embody  a  conception  so  fanciful — a  bit  of  dream- 
land— with  a  skill  so  sympathetic,  delicate,  deft, 
and  sure. 

Well  do  I  remember  the  attitude  of  some  of 
our  commercial  managers  toward  Henry  Irving 
when  he  first  came  to  this  country.  They  said 
that  he  was  a  novelty  which  had  been  well  adver- 
tised; a  charlatan  whose  tricks  made  him  noto- 
rious; a  showman  whose  lavish  expenditures 
would  soon  bring  him  to  ruin.  They  changed 
their  tune  after  a  season  or  two,  when  he  con- 
tinued to  draw  crowded  houses,  while  their  own 
theaters  were  comparatively  empty.  But  they 
never  learned  to  profit  by  the  supreme  lesson 
he  taught  them,  which,  as  I  take  it,  is  that  the 
theater  run  most  consistently  upon  artistic  prin- 
ciples, is  in  the  end  most  commercially  prosper- 
ous. It  is  true  that  in  his  last  years  his  for- 
tunes, not  his  reputation,  temporarily  declined 
somewhat,  owing  to  sickness,  misfortune,  mis- 
calculation, and  other  causes.  But  from  the 
moment  that  he  first  took  up  the  reins  of  manage- 

312 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

merit  he  increased  steadily  in  artistic  fame  and 
riches.  The  secret  of  his  success  is  an  open 
one.  He  had  a  rooted  faith  in  the  dignity,  the 
significance,  the  artistic  universality,  and  the 
weighty  responsibilities  of  his  profession. 

To  him  the  theater  was  the  handmaid  of  all 
the  arts.  To  him  a  play,  if  it  was  worth  doing 
at  all,  was  worth  doing  in  the  best  possible 
manner.  I  do  not  believe  that  he  was  greatly 
concerned  about  the  moral  or — except  from  the 
artistic  point  of  view — the  educational  influence 
of  the  stage.  He  was  not  altogether  exempt  from 
the  egoism  which  so  often  warps  the  judgment 
of  the  actor-manager,  and  it  would  be  folly  to 
pretend  that  he  was  indifferent  to  the  receipts  in 
his  box-office.  Beyond  question  he  was  fully  alive 
to  the  attractive  powers  of  sensational  incident 
and  spectacle.  Not  all  his  plays  rose  to  the  same 
high  level  of  literary  and  dramatic  excellence. 
His  supreme  confidence  in  his  own  histrionic 
genius  not  infrequently  led  him  to  undertake 
characters,  such  as  Macbeth,  Borneo,  Othello,  and 
Coriolanus,  for  which  he  was  unfitted,  while  his 
determination  to  be  first  or  nowhere  prevented 
him  from  producing  plays  in  which  he  might 
have  been  outshone,  and  from  assuming  compara- 
tively subordinate  parts  for  which  he  was  preemi- 
nently qualified. 

313 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

He  never,  for  instance,  produced  "As  You 
Like  It,"  although  he  often  talked  of  doing  so, 
because,  as  he  said,  he  could  not  make  up  his 
mind  whether  to  play  Touchstone  or  Jacques. 
It  can  scarcely  be  doubted,  in  the  light  of  his 
actual  accomplishment,  that  his  interpretation  of 
either  character  would  have  been  an  intellectual 
treat  which  would  have  added  infinitely  to  the 
value  of  the  representation,  while  it  is  virtually 
certain  that  Ellen  Terry  would  have  proved  the 
ideal  Rosalind  of  this  era. 

Many  good  actors  have  played  Touchstone 
during  the  last  forty  or  fifty  years ;  half  a  dozen, 
perhaps,  with  genuine  intuition;  others  with  in- 
fectious humor,  but  not  one  of  them  is  now 
remembered  for  preeminent  success  in  the  part. 
It  is  tolerably  safe  to  say  that,  within  living 
memory,  no  player  has  realized  fully  upon  the 
stage  the  charm  which  this  most  delightful  of 
Shakespeare's  clowns  exerts  upon  the  printed 
page.  Most  of  his  interpreters,  not  unwisely, 
have  contented  themselves  with  keeping  very 
closely  to  the  lines  of  old  theatrical  traditions. 
For  these  Irving,  who  was  seldom  imitative, 
probably  would  have  had  small  reverence.  Right 
or  wrong,  he  would  have  been  guided  in  his  con- 
ception by  his  own  impulses  and  intellect.  The 
mere  fact  that  he  meditated  the  assumption  of 

314 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

a  subordinate  part  is  virtually  proof  that  lie  had 
original  ideas  concerning  it.  Very  likely  the 
result  might  have  been  strange,  beyond  all  possi- 
bility of  doubt  it  would  have  been  profoundly 
interesting  and  suggestive.  He  had  the  brains, 
the  inventiveness,  and  the  authority  (a  great 
advantage)  to  give  new  significance  and  clar- 
ity to  obscure  or  difficult  phrases,  and  the 
artistry  (inasmuch  as  the  part  lay  wholly 
within  his  physical  resources)  to  insure  a  com- 
pletely harmonious  study.  Moreover,  his  im- 
personation would  have  been  charged  with  all 
the  dynamics  of  his  own  extraordinary  person- 
ality. In  Jacques,  he  would  have  found  a  superb 
opportunity  for  the  display  of  his  ironic  humor, 
but  for  little  else.  In  Touchstone,  he  might  have 
been  facile  primus.  In  any  case,  if  he  failed,  he 
would  have  failed  brilliantly. 

For  the  remaining  parts  his  company  would 
have  supplied  an  insuperable  cast,  and  it  is  tan- 
talizing to  think  of  the  scenic  loveliness  and  the 
romantic  glamor  with  which  his  managerial  skill 
and  sure  artistic  instinct  would  have  invested 
that  exquisite  pastoral  comedy.  This  was  one  of 
his  lost  opportunities,  and  it  was  one  that  Phelps 
would  never  have  missed.  Irving,  be  it  noted, 
never  labored  under  the  delusion  that  a  leading 
actor  rose  in  popular  estimation  by  virtue  of  his 

315 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

manifest  superiority  over  incompetent  associates, 
or  that  a  good  play  was  always  its  own  sufficient 
vindication  in  the  theater.  He  had  his  failures, 
but  none  of  them  was  on  account  of  indifferent 
representation.  His  stock  company,  collected 
with  care  and  kept  together  by  liberal  treatment 
and  constant  employment,  was  for  many  years 
the  best  in  existence  and  was  reinforced  by  the 
best  available  material  as  occasion  required. 

For  his  scenery  he  employed  artists  of  renown, 
and,  to  insure  the  proper  atmosphere  and  accu- 
racy in  detail,  he  summoned  to  their  aid  eminent 
experts  in  costume,  architecture,  and  archeology. 
For  his  modern  plays  he  went,  for  the  most  part, 
not  to  hacks,  but  to  authors  of  established  lit- 
erary repute.  In  rehearsals  he  was  incessant  and 
indefatigable.  Well  served,  he  was  in  all  things 
director  in  chief,  a  fact  that  accounts  for  the 
unity  in  purpose  and  design  that  distinguished 
all  his  representations  and  speaks  volumes  for 
his  individual  capacity.  He  owed  much,  doubt- 
less, to  the  long  and  arduous  apprenticeship 
which  he  served  in  various  stock  companies  be- 
fore he  got  his  foot  on  the  first  rung  of  the 
ladder,  but  more  to  his  own  indomitable  ambition 
and  energy.  He  was  among  the  great  ones  of 
mankind.  Not  a  scholar  or  student,  he  had  an 
intellectual  keenness  and  avidity  that  enabled 

316 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

him  to  absorb  and  assimilate  all  sorts  of  useful 
learning  from  Ms  experience  and  the  eminent 
men  in  all  walks  of  life,  whose  intimacy  he  cul- 
tivated assiduously,  and  who  were  proud  to  ac- 
knowledge him  as  their  friend.  The  strange 
charm  of  his  manner,  his  knowledge  of  the  world, 
his  shrewd  and  caustic  comment,  his  prodigal 
liberality  as  a  host,  and  his  self-respect  and  dis- 
cretion won  for  him  a  social  position  to  which 
few  actors  before  him  had  attained.  This,  per- 
haps, was  not  the  least  of  his  many  services  to 
his  profession.  Half  a  dozen  men  of  his  stamp 
would  do  more  to  renovate  the  theater  than  all 
the  dilettante  committees  that  can  be  organized. 
Almost  an  ideal  manager,  he  showed  how  to  ele- 
vate the  theater  and  at  the  same  time  make  it  pay 
by  treating  it  seriously.  He  died  too  soon  and 
left  no  successor  behind  him. 


317 


RICHARD  MANSFIELD 

OF  a  very  different  type  from  Henry  Irving 
was  Richard  Mansfield,  and  yet  there  were  some 
striking  similarities  between  the  two  men.  Both 
had  strong  individualities,  burning  ambition,  in- 
tense egotism,  and  high  artistic  instinct.  In  both 
the  creative  or  interpretative  faculty  was  ham- 
pered and  limited  by  the  ingrained  habits  of  an 
inexorable  personality.  Both  believed  themselves 
equal  to  the  loftiest  flights  of  tragic  emotion,  ig- 
noring the  limitations  of  which,  perhaps,  they  were 
unconscious,  and  both  underrated  the  exceptional 
abilities  with  which  they  were  endowed.  Irving, 
of  course,  was  the  greater  actor,  the  finer  char- 
acter, and  the  more  nimble  and  apprehensive  in- 
tellect of  the  two.  In  the  hard  school  of  experi- 
ence he  acquired  a  wisdom,  an  adaptability,  and 
a  self-control  which  Mansfield  never  learned.  To 
the  last  the  latter  was  imperious,  wilful,  self-cen- 
tered, and  indocile.  He  was  a  terror  to  his 
managers. 

Concerning  the  brilliancy  of  his  natural  talents 

318 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

there  can  be  no  dispute.  He  inherited  a  large 
share  of  them  from  his  mother,  Madame  Ruders- 
dorf,  one  of  the  greatest  dramatic  singers  of  her 
day,  and  a  most  capable  and  headstrong  woman. 
He  was  musical,  sang  beautifully,  painted  with 
skill,  and  was  a  good  linguist.  I  would  not  hesi- 
tate to  accredit  him  with  genius  were  it  not  for 
the  indefiniteness  of  a  word  so  profligately  mis- 
used. Genius,  in  the  sense  of  an  uncommon  de- 
yelopment  of  the  mimetic  and  artistic  faculties, 
he  undoubtedly  had,  but  not  in  any  superlative 
degree.  His  manner,  on  the  stage  and  off,  was 
apt  to  be  stiff,  precise,  and  angular,  but,  never- 
theless there  was  about  his  presence  a  certain 
forcefulness — a  suggestion  of  latent  power — that 
concentrated  attention  and  excited  interest.  His 
voice  was  deep,  resonant,  and  musical — few  ac- 
tors have  been  gifted  with  a  finer  organ — but  he 
never  learned  to  take  full  advantage  of  it,  adopt- 
ing a  falling  inflection  ending  upon  the  same  note 
at  every  period,  which  soon  wearied  the  ear,  and 
was  especially  fatal  in  the  delivery  of  blank 
verse, 

I  have  referred  briefly  to  the  remarkable  per- 
formance of  the  Baron  Chevrial  in  "A  Parisian 
Romance,"  in  the  Union  Square  Theater,  which 
first  brought  him  prominently  into  public  notice. 
Hitherto  he  had  been  identified  chiefly  with  light 

319 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

dramatic  pieces  and  comic  opera — he  won  praise 
as  Sir  Joseph  Porter  in  "H.  M.  S.  Pinafore" — 
and  this  realistic  exhibition  of  depravity  in  dot- 
age, by  a  young  and  comparatively  unknown 
actor,  was  a  surprise  to  the  public,  the  managers, 
and  the  critics,  and  soon  became  a  town  topic. 
It  was  an  extraordinarily  clever  bit  of  work,  and 
deserved  nearly  all  the  praise  that  it  received. 
The  assumption  of  senility,  aping  youth,  an  an- 
cient satyr  with  a  veneer  of  superfine  polish,  of 
a  lust  lassata  necdum  satiata,  was  almost  as  fas- 
cinating as  it  was  horrible.  And  the  picture  of 
the  death  stroke,  paralyzing  an  infamous  hilarity, 
was  vivid  and  startling  in  the  extreme.  It  was 
a  wonderful  piece  of  mimicry,  but  it  was  not  a 
great  performance,  because  no  great  power  of 
emotion  or  imagination  was  involved.  It  could 
not  be  compared  for  a  moment  with  the  effect 
wrought  by  such  actors  as  Edwin  Booth,  E.  L. 
Davenport,  or  Samuel  Phelps  in  the  collapse  of 
Sir  Giles  Overreach.  But  it  saved  a  poor  play 
from  disaster,  and  made  the  actor,  who  had  been 
so  prompt  in  seizing  his  opportunity,  famous. 

The  part  was  prominent  in  his  repertory  for 
many  years,  but  in  expanding  and  over-elaborat- 
ing it  he  spoiled  his  own  performance.  He  had, 
however,  established  his  reputation  as  an  inter- 
preter of  eccentric  character,  and  it  was  for  his 

320 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

proficiency  in  this  line  that  he  will  be  longest 
remembered.  When  Steele  Mackaye  produced 
his  "In  Spite  of  All" — a  variation  upon  Sardou's 
"Andrea" — Mansfield  furnished  a  most  telling 
sketch  of  a  theatrical  manager  of  German  extrac- 
tion. It  was  a  veritable  characterization,  in 
which  all  the  details  of  speech,  appearance,  and 
manner  were  nicely  appropriate,  and  he  main- 
tained the  illusion  most  successfully,  until  the 
action  of  the  scene  called  for  a  manifestation  of 
emotional  pathos,  when  he  broke  down,  his  acting 
being  devoid  of  all  sincerity. 

Soon  afterward  he  appeared  as  the  hero  of 
"Prince  Karl,"  written  for  him  by  A.  C.  Gunter. 
The  piece  itself  was  unmitigated  rubbish.  It  was 
all  about  a  Prince  who,  having  proposed  mar- 
riage to  one  woman,  makes  love  to  another,  whom 
he  has  discovered  to  be  richer,  in  the  guise  of  his 
own  courier.  In  it  Mr.  Mansfield  won  much 
popularity.  He  played  the  Prince  in  the  light 
vein  of  eccentric  comedy  in  which  he  excelled, 
and  was  particularly  happy  in  his  broken  English, 
in  his  snatches  of  song,  and  his  adoption  of  a 
foreign  manner.  But  here  again  he  was  least 
satisfactory  in  his  interpretation  of  passages 
of  romantic  sentiment,  demanding  some  measure 
of  emotional  sincerity.  Even  in  these  early  days 
it  ^was  apparent  to  experienced  observers  that 

321 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

the  fervor  of  romantic  ardor  and  the  poignancy 
of  true  pathos  were  beyond  his  means  of  expres- 
sion. 

Mansfield  advanced  still  further  in  public  favor 
in  a  melodramatic  version  of  the  "Dr.  Jekyll 
and  Mr.  Hyde"  of  Eobert  Louis  Stevenson.  The 
play  reproduced  some  of  the  leading  incidents  of 
the  story  and  some  of  the  text,  but  very  little  of 
its  spirit,  significance,  and  power.  As  for  the 
performance  of  Mr.  Mansfield  of  the  double  per- 
sonality, that  was  full  of  melodramatic  effect  and 
theatrical  strokes,  but  showed  very  little  sym- 
pathetic imagination.  It  was  in  the  externals 
that  gratify  the  crowd,  not  in  the  clairvoyance 
of  a  perfect  intelligence,  that  it  excelled.  Jekyll 
he  represented  as  a  young,  sallow,  melancholy 
student,  with  cleanly  shaven  face,  very  dark  and 
heavy  eyebrows,  and  long,  black  hair.  Far  from 
being  the  jovial,  debonair  man  of  the  world,  he 
was  haunted  by  the  terrors  of  his  position,  a 
sort  of  Hamlet  in  a  frock  coat.  Hyde  he  made  a 
nightmare  of  goblin  hideousness,  a  white,  leer- 
ing vampire,  with  a  ferocious  mouth  and  glazing 
eyes,  deformed,  lame,  palsied,  and  infirm.  A 
loathsome  object,  certainly,  and,  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent, like  a  medieval  demon,  suggestive  of  evil, 
but  not  half  so  appalling  or  infernal  as  the  shriv- 
elled Hyde  of  the  original,  with  his  horrible 

322 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

lightness,  activity,  and  energy,  impressing  the 
observer  with  a  sense  of  a  deformity  which  did 
not  actually  exist.  The  subtleties  of  this  crea- 
tion eluded  Mansfield  completely.  For  an  imag- 
inative symbolism — in  which  Irving,  who  once 
meditated  playing  the  character,  would  have 
revelled — he  could  only  .substitute  something 
grossly  palpable  and  material.  He  utterly  failed 
to  denote  that  one  character  was  supplemental 
to  the  other.  Essentially  the  difference  between 
his  two  men  was  physical. 

The  moroseness  and  gloom  of  Jekyll  had  much 
in  common  with  the  sullen  ferocity  of  Hyde.  By 
making  Jekyll  buoyant  and  convivial,  as  he  is 
expressly  described  in  the  book,  he  would  have 
prepared  a  much  finer  and  more  artistic  dramatic 
contrast.  That  he  showed  much  acting  power  in 
illustrating  his  grotesque  idea  of  Hyde,  I  fully 
acknowledge,  but  it  was  not  of  an  inspired  kind. 
J.  B.  Studley,  and  others  of  the  old  Bowery  melo- 
dramatic days,  could  have  done  as  much.  He  was 
at  his  best  in  his  scene  with  Dr.  Lanyon,  where, 
after  getting  the  drugs,  Hyde  taunts  him  with 
his  incredulity  and  curiosity  At  this  juncture 
there  was  a  dash  of  the  demoniacal  in  his  voice 
and  gesture,  but  the  double  impersonation,  as  a 
whole,  evinced  no  astonishing  amount  of  intui- 
tion, or  genuine  versatility,  and  was  wholly  un- 

323 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

worthy  of  the  rhapsodical  encomiums  lavished 
upon  it.  Some  of  the  critics  seem  to  have  ac- 
cepted the  commonest  of  theatrical  tricks  as 
unprecedented  miracles. 

Throughout  his  career  Mansfield  suffered 
greatly  at  the  hands  of  his  devoted  worshipers. 
He  was  bepraised  with  an  ecstatical  oratory  that 
would  have  been  fulsome  if  Garrick,  Salvini,  or 
Booth  had  been  the  subject  of  it.  As  a  natural 
consequence  he  was  subjected  to  unnecessary  and 
cruel  comparisons,  and  often  measured  by  stand- 
ards wholly  disproportionate  to  his  inches.  For 
him,  as  for  Charles  Kean,  the  only  true  form  of 
criticism  was  adulation,  and  this  betrayed  him 
into  some  lamentable  mistakes.  His  ''Richard 
III,"  first  produced  in  London  and  Boston,  was 
hailed  as  one  of  the  most  splendid  achieve- 
ments of  modern  managerial  art  and  a  presenta- 
tion instinct  with  the  Shakespearean  spirit.  It  is 
only  fair  to  say  at  once  that  the  scenic  produc- 
tion was  a  very  fine  one — not  better  than  many 
of  Irving 's,  not  so  good  as  some — but  wholly  ad- 
mirable in  its  excellent  painting,  its  rich  and 
accurate  dressing,  its  well-drilled  supernumer- 
aries and  its  solid  architecture. 

As  for  the  Shakespearean  spirit,  it  was  virtu- 
ally the  old  Cibberian  compound.  It  began  with 
the  murder  of  Henry  VI,  and  omitted  the  whole 

324 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Clarence  episode  and  the  scenes  in  which  Queen 
Elizabeth,  Queen  Margaret,  and  Rivers  are  con- 
cerned. It  omitted  the  first,  third,  and  fourth 
scenes  of  the  second  act  and  a  great  part  of  the 
fourth  act.  The  later  acts  were  cut  with  equal 
freedom,  scenes  were  transposed,  and  the  spuri- 
ous text  was  employed  much  as  usual.  There 
was  nothing  very  heinous  in  all  this,  nothing 
for  which  there  was  not  abundant  precedent,  but 
the  misrepresentations  extensively  circulated  in 
relation  to  it  were  unnecessary,  dishonest,  and 
absurdly  foolish.  Poor  Mansfield  was  not  re- 
sponsible, of  course,  for  much  of  the  blatant  non- 
sense published  about  him  by  his  press  agents 
and  correspondents  of  the  penny-a-liner  breed. 
He  may  have  winced  a  little  if  he  ever  read  the 
assertion  that  his  Richard  was  the  best  since 
the  days  of  Edmund  Kean — and  that  with  Edwin 
Booth  still  in  the  field. 

Actually  his  Richard  was  a  forcible-feeble 
affair,  a  cheap,  conventional  portrait  set  in  a 
magnificent  frame.  He  may  justly  be  held  re- 
sponsible for  his  contemptuous  disregard  of  his 
own  prompt  book.  In  a  preface  to  this  he  de- 
clared that  inasmuch  as  Shakespeare  had  libelled 
Richard  unscrupulously  and  exaggerated  his  de- 
formity as  he  had  his  crimes,  he  had  determined 
to  treat  that  deformity  lightly.  Nevertheless,  he 

325 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

wore  a  hump  like  a  camel,  and  tottered  and 
limped  in  a  manner  totally  inconsistent  with  the 
strength  and  agility  of  which  the  usurper  is  known 
to  have  been  possessed.  With  similar  irrelevance, 
after  describing  Gloster's  face  as  "mournful 
almost  to  pathos,"  he  presented  him  as  a  hang- 
dog looking,  beetle-browed  fellow,  whose  face 
suggested  nothing  but  a  dull  malignity.  Of  the 
devilish  alertness,  keen  intelligence,  courtly  habit, 
native  authority,  all  vital  elements  of  the  char- 
acter, he  intimated  nothing.  His  hypocrisy  was 
not  so  much  a  veil  for  his  thoughts  as  a  medium 
for  their  revelation.  Preeminently,  the  dominant 
feature  of  his  performance  was  a  labored  theatri- 
calism,  unenlightened  by  divination.  His  en- 
trance into  King  Henry's  chamber  in  the  tower, 
his  studied  pause  upon  the  threshold,  his  warm- 
ing of  his  hands  at  the  fire,  the  careful  arrange- 
ment of  his  pose  against  the  wall  at  the  head 
of  the  King's  bed,  his  deliberate  drawing  of  his 
sword,  and  the  testing  of  the  tip  exhibited  a  cal- 
culated mechanism  in  which  there  was  no  quiver 
of  life  or  emotion.  He  passed  his  sword  through 
the  body  of  his  victim  with  the  nonchalance  of  a 
poulterer  skewering  a  fowl,  and  wiped  his  sword 
upon  the  curtain  with  the  same  passionless  indif- 
ference. His  intent,  doubtless,  was  to  signify 
remorseless  resolution  and  unshakable  nerve,  but 

326 


he  failed  utterly  to  suggest  tlie  energy  of  the 
direful  will  below  the  icy  surface.  It  was  clever 
pantomime,  but  purely  melodramatic,  not  tragic. 
All  was  mere  action  without  informing  soul. 

A  similar  straining  after  theatrical  effect  was 
noticeable  when  he  spoke  his  opening  soliloquy  in 
the  second  act  squatting  like  a  toad  upon  a  stone 
by  the  wayside.  The  attitude  was  inappropriate 
and  undignified,  and  the  delivery  without  signifi- 
cance or  variety.  In  the  wooing  of  the  Lady 
Anne  he  was  more  satisfactory,  audacity  and  cyni- 
cism being  deftly  blended  with  an  air  of  affected 
sincerity.  But  the  soliloquy,  "Was  ever  woman," 
etc.,  was  a  direct  harangue  to  the  audience, 
shouted  out  in  varying  degrees  of  loudness,  with- 
out light  or  shade,  a  wretchedly  bald  and  unim- 
aginative recitation,  without  a  trace  of  the  tri- 
umphant mockery  and  satanic  exultation  with 
which  Edwin  Booth  used  to  fill  it. 

His  denunciation  of  Hastings  was  noisy  and 
overwrought,  and  in  the  encounter  of  wits  with 
the  little  Duke  of  York  he  betrayed  his  discom- 
fiture in  starts  and  scowls  which  ill  became  so 
accomplished  a  hypocrite,  while  in  the  scene  with 
the  Lord  Mayor,  and  of  the  offer  of  the  crown, 
he  indulged  in  extravagances  which  won  some 
cheap  applause,  indeed,  but  came  perilously  close 
to  burlesque.  It  is  needless  to  multiply  instances 

327 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

of  this  kind — they  were  continuous  in  the  per- 
formance. But  one  device  was  too  illustrative 
of  the  spirit  of  the  performance  to  be  dis- 
regarded. As  Eichard  assumed  his  throne  a  ray 
of  red  light  was  thrown  upon  his  hand.  This 
presently  became  green,  as  if  to  show  the  King 
in  a  new  complexion.  It  was  upon  such  tricks 
as  these  that  Mr.  Mansfield  put  his  main  de- 
pendence. The  impersonation,  considered  as  the 
work  of  an  ambitious  and  unqualified  novice,  was 
not  without  its  compensating  merits,  but  as  a 
study  of  Shakespearean  character  it  was  hope- 
lessly commonplace.  In  later  years  it  improved 
somewhat,  but  not  much.  It  never  rose  above 
the  level  of  the  second  rate. 

From  Shakespeare  Mr.  Mansfield  plunged 
boldly  downward  to  Simms  and  Pettit.  Words 
would  be  wasted  even  in  the  briefest  description 
of  such  miserable  trash  as  "Master  and  Man." 
In  it  he  depicted  a  villainous  hunchback,  whose 
accumulated  crimes  against  innocent  virtue  finally 
prompted  his  neighbors  to  bake  him  in  the  fur- 
nace of  a  foundry.  This  bit  of  the  grotesque  he 
enacted  with  vividness  and  enthusiasm,  employ- 
ing some  of  the  most  lurid  effects  of  his  Hyde 
and  Richard  and  adding  others.  In  the  furnace 
scene  his  portrayal  of  abject,  shrieking,  convul- 
sive terror  was  exceedingly  well  done,  with  an 

328 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

amazing  display  of  physical  vigor.  But,  of  course, 
such  a  part  did  not  require  any  uncommon 
ability. 

He  next  appeared  in  a  character  which  afforded 
him  a  much  better  opportunity  for  artistic  work, 
Beau  Brummell,  which  proved  one  of  his  most 
popular  impersonations.  The  play  was  the  in- 
vention of  the  ingenious  and  prolific  Clyde  Fitch 
and  was  a  poor  affair.  Anxious  to  fit  Mr.  Mans- 
field with  a  neat  dramatic  suit,  he  endowed  the 
Beau  with  generosity,  deep  emotions,  heroic  capa- 
city for  self-sacrifice,  and  other  virtues  com- 
pletely foreign  to  his  nature,  thus  making  the 
shallow,  foppish,  selfish  side  of  him  wholly  in- 
comprehensible. Brummell  really  was  a  worthless 
creature,  a  sort  of  confidence  man  of  a  refined 
type,  with  a  superficial  gloss  of  elegant  manner — 
the  polish,  as  it  were,  upon  the  brass  which  was 
his  principal  constituent.  In  this  piece  he  is  an 
altruist  who  sacrifices  love  and  fortune  for  the 
sake  of  a  favorite  nephew  and  retires  to  digni- 
fied exile,  solitude,  and  starvation.  This  version, 
however,  provides  for  the  one  original,  imagin- 
ative, and  effective  scene  in  the  play,  in  which 
the  starving  exquisite,  dreaming  of  his  former 
state,  dines  luxuriously  off  phantom  dishes,  while 
entertaining  old  companions  conjured  up  by  his 
delirium. 

329 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

In  this  closing  episode,  well  suited  to  his  ironic 
humor  and  mimetic  skill,  Mansfield  played  with 
admirable  delicacy,  humor,  and  feeling,  but  he 
was  not  so  entirely  successful  as  might  have  been 
expected  in  the  more  characteristic  Brummellian 
scene  of  the  opening  act.  The  invincible  stiffness 
and  angularity  of  his  manner,  to  which  I  have 
alluded  previously,  militated  against  his  perfect 
assumption  of  the  graceful,  if  formal,  elegance 
which  distinguished  the  fop  of  the  period,  when 
people  stood  in  the  streets  to  see  the  "First 
Gentleman  in  Europe"  take  off  his  hat.  Spon- 
taneity and  suppleness  of  action  he  never  could 
acquire.  The  graces  of  gesture  and  diction,  al- 
though his  voice  was  singularly  powerful  and 
melodious,  always  eluded  him.  But  the  air  of 
indolent  indifference,  imperturbable  composure, 
languid  boredom,  and  quiet  insolence  he  caught 
without  difficulty,  and  his  execution  was  admir- 
able in  its  deliberation,  smoothness,  and  finish. 
The  impudent  speeches  so  often  quoted  as  witty 
(every  available  anecdote  historical  or  apocry- 
phal, is  embalmed  in  the  play)  he  spoke  very 
neatly.  It  was  a  clever  performance,  with  a 
great  deal  more  of  Mr.  Mansfield  in  it  than  of 
Beau  Brummell,  and  this  fact,  probably,  contrib- 
uted not  a  little  to  its  prolonged  popularity. 

It  is  scarcely  worth  while  to  dwell  upon  his  ap- 

330 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

pearance  in  "Don  Juan,"  an  amateurish,  piece, 
crude  in  matter  and  form,  which  he  wrote  for 
himself.  It  probably  represented  his  own  esti- 
mate of  his  dramatic  aptitudes  and  was  a  curious 
instance  of  self-deception.  In  the  earlier  acts, 
mainly  farcical,  the  Don  was  exhibited  in  a  va- 
riety of  his  youthful  escapades.  The  last  act, 
melodramatic,  showed  him  in  prison,  wounded  and 
dying,  but  still  invincible.  The  first  scenes  needed 
lightness,  fervor,  gayety,  and  grace,  in  all  of 
which  he  was  deficient,  while  the  last  acts  were 
of  a  quality  which  the  best  of  acting  could  not 
have  redeemed.  Nor  was  he  much  more  fortun- 
ate when  he  undertook  to  embody  the  Eev. 
Arthur  Dimmesdale  in  a  not  very  brilliant  adap- 
tation which  Joseph  Hatton  had  made  out  of 
"The  Scarlet  Letter. "  His  impersonation  was 
devoid  of  almost  every  attribute  ascribed  to  the 
original  by  his  creator. 

Instead  of  being  fragile,  spiritual,  intellectual, 
eloquent,  emotional,  hectic,  and  interesting,  he 
was  stolid,  sneaking,  animal,  and  Dutch.  To  the 
eye  he  was  heavy  and  dyspeptic;  to  the  ear  a 
droning  monotone.  His  delivery  was  one  ever- 
lasting preachment.  After  these  experiments, 
with  characteristic  audacity,  he  ventured  to  chal- 
lenge comparison  with  Edwin  Booth  by  appear- 
ing as  Shylock.  The  attempt  was  attended  by  a 

331 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

considerable  measure  of  success.  He  mounted 
the  comedy  tastefully,  and  gave  it  a  fairly  good 
cast.  In  the  Jew  he  found  a  part  which,  accord- 
ing to  his  reading  of  it,  lay  largely  within  his 
histrionic  boundaries.  His  impersonation  was 
full  of  crudities,  violence,  and  inconsistencies, 
but  it  gave  a  promise,  never  fulfilled,  of  better 
things  thereafter.  It  made  no  pretense  of  racial 
or  personal  dignity,  but,  except  in  the  second  act, 
was  conceived  along  the  lines  of  low  cunning 
and  malevolence,  to  which  he  gave  vital  expres- 
sion. Some  of  his  bursts  of  passion,  although 
more  vociferous  than  eloquent,  were,  neverthe- 
less, effective,  and  much  of  his  byplay  was  full 
of  meaning.  His  farewell  to  Jessica  was  an  ex- 
cellent piece  of  acting — well  imagined  and 
wrought — but  it  was  out  of  harmony  with  much 
that  had  gone  before  and  came  after.  At  no 
point  did  the  performance  show  more  than  or- 
dinary intelligence  or  any  sign  of  inspiration. 
Some  of  the  laudations  lavished  upon  it  have 
long  been  a  source  to  me  of  utter  bewilderment. 
Mansfield  was  in  his  own  proper  province 
when,  abandoning  the  poetic  drama,  he  appeared 
as  the  hero  of  Bernard  Shaw's  sparkling  ex- 
travaganza "Arms  and  the  Man."  Of  this  he 
grasped  the  humor  intuitively,  acting  with  a 
simple  sincerity  too  often  missing  in  his  more 

332 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

ambitious  work.  He  succeeded  in  identifying 
himself  with  the  mercenary  soldier,  devoid  of 
enthusiasm,  patriotism,  heroism,  or  any  other 
positive  quality,  except  self-interest  and  an  in- 
voluntary habitual  truthfulness,  often  as  discon- 
certing to  himself  as  to  others.  His  stolid  im- 
perturbability, his  deliberate  speech,  and  quizzi- 
cal manner  were  capital,  and  his  whole  imper- 
sonation, in  its  humor  and  finish,  did  more  to 
justify  his  reputation  than  anything  he  had  of- 
fered to  the  public  for  a  long  time.  His  Napo- 
leon, in  a  disconnected  episodical  panorama  put 
together  by  Lorimer  Stoddard,  was  a  clever  bit 
of  mimicry  without  much  dramatic  significance 
of  any  kind.  Admirably  made  up  he  imperson- 
ated the  Emperor  in  triumph  at  Tilsit,  in  de- 
jection after  the  Eussian  campaign,  at  Elba,  on 
the  eve  of  Waterloo,  and  dying  at  St.  Helena. 

The  views  he  gave  were  wholly  conventional, 
but  he  suggested,  skilfully  enough,  some  of  the 
leading  traits  of  the  great  Corsican,  his  swift 
comprehension,  prompt  decision,  rapidity  in  ac- 
tion, and  superb  self-reliance.  But  no  real  study 
of  the  character  was  involved  in  this  exhibition. 
"The  King  of  Peru,"  by  Louis  Napoleon  Parker, 
which  he  produced  in  1895,  deserved  a  larger 
amount  of  public  attention  than  it  received.  It 
was  a  very  clever  pseudo-historical  social  sa- 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

tire,  with  an  interesting  story  and  a  wholesome 
moral.  The  idea  of  it  was  borrowed  from  the 
"Rois  en  Exil"  of  Daudet.  Mansfield  had  the 
part  of  a  royal  pretender  who  held  his  mimic 
court  in  a  lodging-house  in  Soho.  The  adven- 
turers about  him  induced  him  to  marry  a  rich 
heiress,  who  adored  him,  with  the  view  of  get- 
ting her  money  and  nullifying  the  marriage 
should  the  exile  ever  become  King.  After  the 
money  has  been  spent  the  hero  realizes  the  mean- 
ness of  the  plot  in  which  he  has  been  involved, 
abjures  all  royal  pretensions,  and  resolves  to 
support  his  wife  by  working  honestly  for  a  liv- 
ing. The  play  was  a  good  one  from  every  point 
of  view  and  the  selection  of  it  did  credit  to  Mans- 
field's discernment  and  artistic  taste.  In  many 
ways  the  leading  character  was  peculiarly  well 
suited  to  his  temperament  and  capacities,  and  in 
the  later  acts  he  played  it  with  skill  and  thor- 
ough comprehension.  In  the  scene  of  his  abase- 
ment he  displayed  both  passion  and  pathos,  and 
in  his  final  renunciation  he  was  manly,  dignified, 
and  tender.  If  the  rest  of  his  performance  had 
been  equally  good,  he  might  have  achieved  a 
genuine  triumph,  but  in  the  opening  scenes  his 
stilted  pomposity  fell  little  short  of  the  ridic- 
ulous. Few  actors  could  be  more  interesting  and 
attractive  than  he  when  at  his  best,  still  fewer 
more  exasperating  when  he  was  at  his  worst. 

334 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Not  long  afterward  he  won  an  artistic,  if  not 
popular,  success  in  "Rodion  the  Student,"  an 
adaptation  by  C.  H.  Meltzer  from  the  "Crime 
and  Punishment"  of  Dostoievsky.  The  opening 
acts  were  ordinary  melodrama,  but  the  last  three, 
showing  the  remorse  of  the  murderer,  his  dread 
of  self-betrayal,  the  horrible  fascination  that 
ever  drew  him  to  the  place  of  his  crime,  and  his 
final  collapse,  were  of  far  superior  quality.  It 
was  in  these  later  introspective  scenes  that  Mans- 
field did  his  best  work.  Up  to  the  murder  his 
acting  was  forced,  rigid,  and  mechanical,  but  his 
portrayal  of  the  tortures  of  a  guilty  conscience 
working  upon  a  nervous  system,  already  wrought 
to  the  verge  of  madness,  was  exceedingly  vivid, 
and  in  one  scene  of  frenzied  delirium,  in  which 
he  reenacted  the  murder  in  dumb  show,  grappling 
in  imagination  with  the  shade  of  his  victim,  he 
stirred  the  spectators  to  a  high  pitch  of  enthusi- 
asm. The  simulation  of  extreme  terror  is  not 
in  itself  difficult,  but  at  this  juncture  the  act- 
ing of  Mr.  Mansfield  evinced  imagination  as  well 
as  executive  power.  His  next  essay  was  in  an 
old-fashioned  melodrama  called  "Castle  Som- 
bras,"  which  may  be  left  to  oblivion.  In  it  he 
played  a  gloomy  hero,  of  the  Byronic  type,  with 
indifferent  success.  Nor  need  I  linger  over  "The 
First  Violin,"  a  pretty  little  romantic  play  in 

335 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

which  he  was  much  more  happily  placed.  It 
was  remotely  akin,  in  general  character,  to 
"Prince  Karl,"  and  the  part  of  the  hero  lay 
well  within  the  scope  of  his  varied  abilities,  and 
was  not  in  direct  conflict  with  his  personal  man- 
nerisms. In  it  he  was  long  and  deservedly  suc- 
cessful. 

It  was  in  1898  that  Mansfield,  with  character- 
istic boldness  and  artistic  ambition,  effected  one 
of  his  most  notable  representations,  that  of  Ed- 
mond  Rostand's  brilliant  romantic  and  literary 
fantasy,  "Cyrano  de  Bergerac,"  in  the  English 
version  of  Howard  Thayer  Kingsbury.  His  in- 
dividual performance,  taking  it  for  all  in  all, 
was  one  of  his  most  memorable  achievements.  I 
do  not  propose  to  attempt  here  any  synopsis  or 
review  of  a  play  that  has  been  so  frequently 
described  and  discussed,  but  wish  to  record  my 
personal  conviction  that  the  part  of  Cyrano  as 
conceived  by  its  creator  has  never  been  fully  em- 
bodied in  this  country,  not  even  by  Coquelin,  for 
whom  it  was  originally  designed.  It  is  one  of 
extraordinary  difficulty,  because  of  the  blend  in 
it  of  the  ideally  romantic  and  the  visibly  gro- 
tesque. 

The  problem  before  the  actor  is  to  make  the 
facial  malformity  of  the  man  sufficiently  prom- 
inent to  account  for  its  consequences,  and,  at  the 

330 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

same  time,  to  bring  into  full  relief  the  precious 
jewels  of  character  contained  in  that  unpromis- 
ing casket.  I  think  that  Mansfield,  out  of  over- 
conscientiousness,  perhaps,  made  a  great  mis- 
take and  subjected  himself  to  an  unnecessary 
handicap  in  wearing  a  snout  like  that  of  a  tapir, 
long,  flexible,  hideous,  possibly  comic,  but  in- 
human, which  dwarfed  not  only  every  other  fea- 
ture, but  the  head  and  countenance,  virtually 
annihilating  all  power  of  facial  expression.  This 
was  an  especially  serious  deprivation  to  an  actor 
so  weak  in  oratorical  expedient.  At  first  Mans- 
field trusted  too  much  to  his  comic  vein,  his  be- 
havior and  carriage  scarcely  justifying  the 
prompt  acquiescence  of  so  distinguished  an  as- 
semblage in  the  authority  of  his  self -constituted 
censorship.  His  faulty  elocution  prevented  him 
from  doing  much  with  the  ballade,  punctuated  by 
his  rapier  thrusts. 

In  the  bakery  scene  with  Eoxane,  when  he 
mistakes  the  confession  of  her  love  for  Christian 
for  an  avowal  to  himself,  his  sudden  change 
from  an  attitude  of  ecstatic  anticipation  to  one 
of  bitter  but  sternly  repressed  disappointment 
was  admirable  acting.  In  his  explosive  outbursts 
of  rage  at  the  insults  of  the  incomprehensive 
Christian,  there  were  flashes  of  the  right  fire. 
He  came  near  to  genuine  eloquence  in  the  bal- 

337 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

cony  episode,  where  he  pleads  the  cause  of  his 
rival,  but  his  treatment  of  the  following  passage, 
where  he  delays  the  amorous  Duke  in  the  court- 
yard, savored  of  burlesque.  In  the  camp  and 
battle  scenes  of  the  fourth  act  he  bore  himself 
with  soldierly  gallantry,  but  it  was  in  the  final 
act,  where  the  dying  Cyrano,  loyally  concealing 
his  own  hurt,  betrays  his  secret  to  Eoxane  by 
his  fervid  recitation  of  the  letter  which  he  is 
supposed  never  to  have  seen,  that  he  seemed  sud- 
denly to  seize  the  soul  of  the  character,  acting 
with  a  fervor,  simplicity,  and  unaffected  manli- 
ness which  touched  the  heart  and  quickened  the 
pulse.  Earely  had  he  created  so  fine  an  effect. 
His  death,  too,  on  his  feet,  hurling  a  last  de- 
fiance against  the  foes  he  had  always  fought, 
was  a  worthy  realization  of  the  brilliant  fancy  of 
the  poet.  The  whole  impersonation  was  one  to 
which  a  sincere  tribute  of  hearty  praise  may  be 
gladly  given. 

Two  years  later,  Mr.  Mansfield  put  Shake- 
speare's "Henry  V"  upon  the  stage  with  a  scenic 
completeness  and  splendor  worthy  of  Irving  him- 
self. The  throne  room  at  Westminster,  with  its 
matchless  roof;  the  quay  at  Southampton;  the 
intrenchments  at  Harfleur;  the  English  lines  at 
Agincourt,  and  the  Cathedral  at  Troyes  were 
pictures  that  have  seldom  been  surpassed  upon 

338 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

the  stage.  The  supporting  cast  was  of  level  and 
respectable  capacity.  All  the  accessories  re- 
flected credit  upon  his  managerial  liberality  and 
his  artistic  taste.  But,  unfortunately,  the  driv- 
ing force  needed  to  give  animation  and  dramatic 
vitality  to  all  the  elaborate  preparation  was 
wanting.  Henry  V  is  the  ultimate  development 
of  the  graceless,  reckless,  chivalrous,  and  fascin- 
ating Prince  Hal  of  "  Henry  IV"  at  once  sobered 
and  inspired  by  responsibility.  For  such  a  part, 
which  demands  a  combination  of  distinct  and  rare 
faculties — the  lightness  and  eloquence  of  high 
comedy  and  the  virility  and  fire  of  heroic  romance 
— Mr.  Mansfield  was  in  many  ways  unequipped. 
His  presentment  was  gallant  and  attractive  in 
form,  but  heavy  in  manner  and  uninspired 
in  spirit.  It  was  deficient  in  grace  of  movement 
and  gesture,  in  unconscious  dignity,  in  geniality, 
in  buoyancy,  in  eloquence,  and  spontaneous  sol- 
dierly ardor.  From  first  to  last  it  labored  be- 
neath the  actor's  inveterate  egoism  and  the  fatal 
mannerisms  —  rigid,  spasmodic  gesture,  stiff, 
jerky  walk,  and  monotonous  utterance — which 
marred  so  much  of  his  most  ambitious  work. 

During  his  mid-career  he  mastered  most  of  the 
mechanical  difficulties  of  his  art,  and  greatly  de- 
veloped his  powers  of  voicing  the  baser  forms  of 
passion.  Thus  in  melodrama  he  was  often  ex- 

339 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

ceedingly  impressive.  The  loftier  heights  of 
tragic  emotion  he  could  not  scale.  That  he  had 
imagination  was  sufficiently  proven  by  the  range 
and  variety  of  the  characters  he  assumed,  but 
he  could  only  vitalize  such  ideals  as  could  be 
expressed  in  the  terms  of  his  individual  self. 
He  was  not  really  a  versatile  player  except  in 
the  realm  of  eccentric  comedy,  where  the  mimetic 
faculty,  which  was  strong  in  him,  had  full  scope. 
Had  he  worked  steadily  along  this  line,  he  might 
have  created  masterpieces  which  would  have  won 
a  permanent  place  in  theatrical  history.  As  it 
is,  I  can  not  recall  a  single  character,  of  any 
importance,  that  is  now  associated  with  his  name. 
His  personality  only  will  endure  in  the  memory 
of  his  contemporaries. 


340 


XXII 

AUGUSTIN  DALY'S  COMPANY 

THE  fifteen  years  between  1885  and  1900  saw 
Daly's  Theater  in  the  height  of  its  prosperity 
and  in  the  beginning  of  its  decadence.  In  an 
earlier  chapter  I  wrote  briefly  concerning  Au- 
gustin  Daly  as  a  manager,  and  there  is  not  much 
to  be  added  except  in  the  way  of  confirmation. 
His  actual  achievement  has  been  vastly  over- 
rated. There  is  very  little  solid  foundation  for 
the  common  belief  that  his  contributions  to  the 
revival,  or  survival,  of  the  literary  and  poetic 
drama  were  of  any  great  or  lasting  value.  It  is 
true  that  he  was  a  man  of  artistic  tastes  and 
impulses,  and  a  most  liberal,  enterprising,  and 
courageous  manager,  who  could  be  daunted  by 
no  disaster,  but  was  always  ready  with  a  fresh 
experiment.  It  is  true  that  he  had  for  many 
years  the  best  light-comedy  company  in  the 
country  and  that  he  was  the  author  of  many  de- 
lightful entertainments,  prepared  and  served  in 
irreproachable  fashion.  But  these,  in  the  main, 

341 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

were  of  an  entirely  ephemeral  and  unimportant 
kind. 

In  some  of  his  more  ambitious  undertakings, 
his  sense  of  artistic  propriety  did  not  prevent 
him  from  resorting  to  some  of  the  most  mis- 
chievous practises  of  the  purely  commercial  and 
speculative  managers.  He  did  not  hesitate,  for 
instance,  to  sacrifice  artistic  principle  for  the 
sake  of  "booming"  a  popular  actress,  to  put 
on  plays  for  whose  proper  interpretation  his 
players  were  unqualified,  to  mangle  the  text  in 
order  to  minimize  their  incompetency,  or  to  offer 
attractive  spectacle  as  a  substitute  for  good  act- 
ing. Some  of  the  pieces  that  he  produced  were 
unmitigated  trash,  flagrant  melodramatic  absurd- 
ities, with  no  other  possible  object  than  to  catch 
the  mob.  I  have  already  alluded  to  the  fact 
that,  on  some  occasions,  even  his  scenery  was 
flashy  rather  than  artistically  appropriate  and 
meritorious.  On  the  whole,  however,  he  shone 
in  contrast  with  most  of  his  contemporaries,  and 
to  this  fact,  probably,  may  be  attributed  a  con- 
siderable proportion  of  the  critical  complaisance 
which  he  enjoyed.  Thus  much  in  the  interest  of 
truth  and  common  sense,  but  I  am  indebted  to 
him  for  too  many  agreeable  and  not  unprofitable 
evenings  to  wish  to  linger  upon  this  phase  of  his 
career. 

342 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

At  the  period  of  which  I  am  writing  his  prin- 
cipal players — at  one  time  or  another — included 
Ada  Eehan  (whose  death  has  been  so  recent), 
John  Drew,  Otis  Skinner,  Erne  Shannon,  Arthur 
Bourchier,  and  Frank  Worthing  (also  recently 
dead) — all  of  whom  were  to  be  "stars"  in  the 
near  future — and  Mrs.  Gilbert,  James  Lewis, 
Charles  Fisher,  William  Davidge,  George  Clarke, 
Harry  Edwards,  and  Charles  Wheatleigh,  of  an 
older  generation. 

The  list  speaks  for  itself.  No  such  aggrega- 
tion of  competent  performers  in  light  contempo- 
rary comedy  has  been  in  existence  since.  Their 
cooperation  in  the  long  succession  of  comedies 
provided  for  them,  mostly  from  foreign  sources, 
by  Mr.  Daly  was  admirable  in  smoothness,  rapid- 
ity, and  sustained  spirit.  All  these  pieces,  though 
varying  in  incident  and  plot,  carried  a  strong 
family  resemblance,  and  present  review  of  them 
would  be  tedious.  Among  them  may  be  men- 
tioned "A  Night  Off,"  Pinero's  "The  Magis- 
trate," "Nancy  &  Company,"  "Love  in  Har- 
ness," "The  Railroad  of  Love,"  "The  Lottery 
of  Love,"  "Dandy  Dick,"  "The  Golden  Widow," 
"The  Last  Word,"  "Little  Miss  Million,"  "Love 
on  Crutches,"  and  "The  Countess  Gucki." 

In  all  of  these,  and  others  of  less  note,  Ada 
Rehan,  John  Drew,  James  Lewis,  and  Mrs.  Gil- 

343 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

bert  were  the  protagonists.  Miss  Rehan,  from 
the  first,  was  in  her  element  in  every  variety  of 
piquant,  tender,  mischievous,  high-spirited,  al- 
luring, whimsical,  and  provocative  girlhood.  Her 
humor  was  infectious,  her  charm  potent,  her 
pertness  delicious,  her  petulance  pretty,  and  her 
flashes  of  ire  or  scorn  brilliant.  She  improved 
rapidly  in  artistry,  and  to  the  intuition  of  a 
clever  novice  she  quickly  added  the  skill  of  the 
trained  comedian.  John  Drew,  a  tyro  when  he 
first  joined  Daly,  soon  became  one  of  the  best 
of  leading  juveniles,  in  any  sort  of  part  that 
did  not  involve  serious  sentiment  or  deep  feel- 
ing. Humor  of  a  distinctive  quality — cynical, 
satirical,  or  genial — especially  effective  in  situ- 
ations of  serio-comic  perplexity,  he  had  inher- 
ited from  his  parents,  and  he  gradually  acquired 
a  notable  refinement  of  style,  with  uncommon 
neatness  of  execution  and  capacity  of  repose. 
In  this  heyday  of  Daly's  he  promised  to  grow 
into  one  of  the  most  accomplished  comedians 
of  his  era,  but  his  long  apprenticeship  in  one  line 
of  work  was  to  prove  a  bar  to  his  further  prog- 
ress. As  a  modern  man  of  the  world — the  pol- 
ished clubman,  the  wise  mentor,  the  social  diplo- 
matist, the  polite  wooer — he  excelled  all  com- 
petitors, but  when  he  tried  to  pass  beyond  the 
boundaries  of  the  drawing-room  into  the  outer 

344 


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SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

regions  of  poetic  romance  and  the  profounder 
human  emotions,  his  equipment  was  insufficient 
and  his  habits  so  set  and  petrified  by  habit  as 
to  be  no  longer  susceptible  of  growth.  Inspira- 
tion, long  confined,  would  not  respond  to  the 
call  of  intelligence. 

Mr.  Daly,  in  1880,  effected  a  revival  of  "The 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,"  which  he  had  first 
produced  fifteen  years  before.  He  mounted  and 
dressed  it  sumptuously,  but  his  players,  with  few 
exceptions,  were  sadly  out  of  perspective,  their 
modern  manners  contrasting  strangely  with  the 
old  costumes  and  direct  and  vigorous  speech. 
They  used  to  play  the  warm-blooded  farce  as  if 
it  were  an  anemic  social  comedy  of  the  present, 
dealing  with  fashionable  foibles  and  artificial  ele- 
gances, instead  of  a  study  of  human  nature  in 
an  Elizabethan  townlet.  Shakespeare  would  have 
been  sorely  puzzled  to  recognize  in  these  dandi- 
fied folk  the  old  burgesses  of  Windsor  in  their 
lusty  sylvan  simplicity.  Beyond  question  he 
would  have  paid  a  poet's  tribute  to  the  loveli- 
ness of  Ada  Eehan  and  Virginia  Dreher,  but  he 
never  would  have  suspected  that  these  dazzling 
young  beauties,  in  their  silks  and  laces  and  spark- 
ling gems,  were  those  noted  gossips,  Mistress 
Ford  and  Mistress  Page,  whom  Fat  Jack  him- 
self, even  in  a  letter  of  courtship,  was  compelled 

345 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

to  admit  were  neither  beautiful  nor  young.  The 
Knight's  tastes,  it  may  be  remembered,  were  not 
of  the  most  fastidious  kind. 

The  transformation  of  the  husbands  was  no 
less  complete.  The  fiery,  jealous  Ford,  in  the 
hands  of  John  Drew,  was  a  pretty  fellow,  an 
exquisite  in  dress,  and  a  courtier  in  behavior, 
who,  like  Bottom's  lion,  roared  like  any  sucking 
dove.  The  Page  of 'Mr.  Otis  Skinner  was  a  swag- 
gering young  prig,  who  might,  for  all  his  ap- 
parent years,  have  been  the  lover  of  his  own 
daughter,  Sweet  Anne.  The  Falstaff  of  Charles 
Fisher — who  now  revealed  the  infirmities  of 
age — was  right  in. design,  but  bereft  of  unction 
and  vitality.  The  Bardolph  of  Mr.  Eoberts  had 
a  red  nose  and  that  was  all.  The  Pistol  of 
George  Parkes,  gentlest  of  bullies,  emitted  little 
puffs  and  snorts,  at  intervals,  with  the  decrepi- 
tude of  an  ancient  bellows.  James  Lewis, 
quaintest  and  most  delightful  of  comedians  in 
his  line,  could  do  nothing  with  Slender.  Mrs. 
Gilbert,  who  did  nothing  really  ill,  was  hope- 
lessly miscast  in  the  part  of  Mrs.  Quickly.  The 
only  really  Shakespearean  embodiment  was  John 
Wood's  Nym,  which,  in  its  dry  eccentricity,  was 
a  capital  little  study.  The  representation  did  not 
last  long.  There  was  no  reason  why  it  should. 
Upon  its  inevitable  withdrawal  there  were  the 

346 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

usual  lamentations  over  the  degeneracy  of  the 
public  taste.  The  public  was  not  at  fault.  It 
exhibited  better  judgment  and  greater  reverence 
for  Shakespeare  than  the  critics,  who  professed 
to  enjoy  and  admire  such  a  spiritless  parody  of 
him. 

Mr.  Daly  approached  a  Shakespearean  success 
much  more  nearly  in  1887,  when  he  produced 
"The  Taming  of  the  Shrew,'*  with  a  luxurious 
setting  and  in  something  like  the  original  form. 
The  piece  was  simpler  sailing  for  his  company 
than  "The  Merry  Wives,"  and  the  general  per- 
formance, in  the  circumstances,  was  fairly  credit- 
able, though  the  text,  in  many  instances,  presented 
insoluble  problems  to  the  speakers.  Moreover, 
the  play  was  a  comparative  novelty  to  the  New 
York  public,  and  as  such  was  cordially  accepted. 
As  Katharine,  Ada  Eehan  won  a  personal  tri- 
umph, and  the  part  remained  long  in  her  rep- 
ertory. For  myself,  I  must  confess  that  I  could 
never  fully  agree  with  the  panegyrics  bestowed 
upon  her  performance  here  and,  afterward,  in 
England.  Undoubtedly,  it  was  a  good  one — in 
some  respects  even  brilliant,  but  I  fancy  that 
the  personal  fascination  of  the  actress — which, 
in  her  prime,  was  very  great — had  much  to  do 
with  the  wide  critical  acceptance  of  it.  Her 
Shrew  was  a  superb  figure,  but  to  my  mind  she 

347 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

vulgarized  the  character  somewhat  unnecessarily. 
It  is  true  enough  that,  in  the  text,  Katharine's 
unmanageable  temper  is  described  in  words  that 
would  warrant  almost  any  degree  of  coarseness 
and  violence,  but  some  allowance  must  be  made 
for  the  bluntness  and  vigor  of  Elizabethan 
speech,  and  it  should  not  be  forgotten  that 
Katharine  was  the  daughter  of  a  merchant 
prince,  moved  in  "upper  circles,"  so  to  speak, 
and,  presumably,  had  the  training  of  a  gentle- 
woman in  a  period  precise  in  its  code  of  man- 
ners. On  the  whole,  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose 
that  she  had  her  normal  moments  and  that  it 
was  only  in  her  tantrums  that  she  became  posi- 
tively outrageous.  The  play  itself,  although  it 
contains  some  notable  blank  verse,  is  not  of  very 
much  consequence,  but  it  would  lose  nothing  in 
humor  and  gain  in  plausibility  and  interest  with 
a  higher  conception  of  Katharine  than  that  of 
a  half-crazy  virago.  She  ought  to  suggest  some 
of  the  graces  of  her  station,  carry  with  her  a 
certain  personal  distinction,  and  exhibit  passion 
in  varying  degrees.  Miss  Behan  started  her  per- 
formance at  the  highest  pitch  of  quivering  indig- 
nation at  her  command,  and  thereby  secured  a 
most  picturesque  and  effective  entrance.  She 
maintained  herself  at  this  level,  or  near  it,  with 
amazing  energy,  but  the  effort  left  her  without 

348 


o 


CO 


H 
O 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

any  reserve  force  for  climaxes.  Consequently, 
her  performance  was  lacking  in  light  and  shade, 
and  grew  weaker  instead  of  stronger  toward  the 
end.  But  it  marked  an  upward  step  in  her 
career.  Mr.  Drew  played  Petruchio  with  a  gay 
audacity  that  met  all  the  absolute  requirements 
of  the  situation,  although  he  was  not  an  authori- 
tative figure. 

Mr.  Daly's  revival  of  "A  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream,"  in  1888,  was  chiefly  remarkable  for  its 
beautiful  pictures,  especially  in  the  woodland 
and  fairy  scenes,  and  an  excellently  painted  pan- 
orama showing  the  passage  of  Theseus  in  his 
barge  to  Athens.  A  most  felicitous  use  of  little 
electric  lights  was  made  in  the  fairy  episodes, 
and  the  management  of  the  elfin  troops  them- 
selves was  eminently  imaginative  and  pictur- 
esque. A  more  exquisite  or  delicate  setting  of 
this  lovely  poetic  fantasy  could  not  reasonably 
be  desired,  but  the  performance  itself  was  far 
from  satisfactory  and  calls  for  no  prolonged 
comment.  The  poetry  suffered  severely  in  its 
delivery  by  unaccustomed  lips,  and  most  of  the 
impersonations  were  laboriously  feeble. 

Ada  Eehan  was  a  charming  Helena  to  the 
eye,  but  was  unimpressive  in  the  serious  pas- 
sages, while  her  reading  of  the  blank  verse  was 
monotonous.  It  was  not  until  her  quarrel  with 

349 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Hermia  that  she  did  herself  justice.  This  she 
made  delicious  with  a  dash  of  her  characteristic 
comedy.  Otis  Skinner  imparted  a  welcome  spirit 
to  his  Lysander.  John  Drew  was  not  at  all  at 
ease  as  Demetrius,  but  avoided  positive  failure. 
James  Lewis  was  exceedingly  comical  as  Bot- 
tom, and  was  rewarded  with  abundant  laughter, 
but  exhibited  no  comprehension  of  the  character. 
He  was  a  clever  mime  striving  to  make  himself 
ridiculous,  not  a  stupid  man  ridiculous  in  spite 
of  himself.  His  burlesque  tragedy,  however,  set 
the  audience  in  a  roar.  In  an  expurgated  ver- 
sion of  Farquhar's  "The  Inconstant,"  which  Mr. 
Daly  gave  a  year  later,  the  chief  feature  of  the 
performance  was  the  Old  Mirabel  of  Charles 
Fisher,  which  had  the  true  flavor  of  the  original. 
The  Oriana  of  Ada  Eehan  was  entirely  modern, 
but  earnest,  piquant,  and  womanly.  She  played 
the  mad  scene  well  and  made  a  pretty  counter- 
feit of  a  boy,  although  her  disguise  could  have  de- 
ceived nobody.  Mr.  Drew  was  but  a  pale  re- 
flection of  the  true  Mirabel,  but  played  the  part 
with  a  crispness  and  neatness  which  were  not 
ineffective. 

"As  You  Like  It,"  which  Mr.  Daly  produced 
in  1889,  was  among  the  most  satisfactory  of  his 
representations  of  Shakespearean  comedy.  The 
piece  made  no  extraordinary  demand  upon  the 

350 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

histrionic  faculties  of  the  company,  and  sup- 
plied opportunities  for  pictorial  beauty  of  which 
Mr.  Daly  availed  himself  with  his  habitual  lib- 
erality and  artistic  sentiment.  The  groups  of 
foresters  were  picturesquely  ordered,  and  the 
sylvan  music  was  entrusted  to  thoroughly  com- 
petent performers.  Ada  Rehan  made  a  hit  as 
Rosalind,  a  part  which  for  long  was  one  of  the 
most  popular  in  her  repertory.  The  more  subtle 
romantic  elements  of  the  character — the  poetic 
essence,  the  delicate  sentiment,  the  graces  of  in- 
herent nobility — she  did  not  much  concern  her- 
self about,  and  her  delivery  of  the  text  was 
marred  by  the  elocutionary  faults  which  she 
never  overcame,  but  she  presented  a  bewitching 
picture  of  health  and  youth  animated  by  a  high 
and  frolicsome  spirit,  just  a  little  dashed  at 
times  by  the  tender  anxieties  of  love.  Her  first 
meeting  with  Orlando  was  marked  by  coquetry 
rather  than  timidity,  but  was  very  pretty,  na- 
tural, and  feminine.  Her  retort  upon  the  tyrant 
Duke  had  spirit  and  dignity,  but  in  this  passage 
she  was  far  excelled  by  Mary  Anderson,  who 
had  the  gift  of  majestic  utterance. 

Her  doublet  and  hose  became  her  excellently, 
and  she  played  the  scenes  with  Orlando  with  a 
pretty  affectation  of  boyish  swagger  mingled 
with  maidenly  consciousness.  The  humor  of  it 

351 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

all  was  scarcely  in  the  poetic  or  Shakespearean 
vein,  but  her  acting  was  unaffected,  lifelike,  and 
sympathetic.  It  was  a  performance  of  great 
but  not  superlative  merit.  Henrietta  Crosman, 
herself  a  Rosalind  of  future  distinction,  gave 
unwonted  animation  to  Celia.  She  endowed  that 
young  lady  with  more  liveliness,  perhaps,  than 
properly  belongs  to  her,  but  she  pleased  her 
audience  mightily. 

John  Drew  played  Orlando  with  appropriate 
simplicity,  directness,  and  sincerity — creating  a 
most  favorable  impression — and  Charles  Fisher 
made  a  noble  and  pathetic  figure  as  old  Adam. 
The  Touchstone  of  James  Lewis  was  delightfully 
quaint  and  humorous,  if  not  preeminently  Shake- 
spearean. George  Clarke,  a  thoroughly  compe- 
tent actor,  played  Jacques  with  a  studied  natur- 
alism which  was  not  ineffective,  but  robbed  the 
character  of  some  of  its  intellectual  distinction. 
His  realism  was  not  assisted  by  the  orchestra, 
which,  for  some  inscrutable  reason,  was  per- 
mitted to  play  accompaniments  to  his  soliloquies. 
The  Le  Beau  of  Sidney  Herbert,  the  Charles  of 
Mr.  Bosworth,  the  Oliver  of  Eugene  Ormond, 
the  First  Lord  of  William  Hamilton,  the  Corin 
of  Charles  Leclercq,  and  the  Silvius  of  Mr.  Bond 
were  all  commendable.  The  representation,  in 
a  word,  if  never  brilliant,  was  consistently  cap- 
able and  pleasing. 

352 


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SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Mr.  Daly  made  a  sumptuous  and,  in  some  re- 
spects, brilliant  revival  of  "The  School  for 
Scandal"  in  1891.  Following  a  mischievous  ex- 
ample, he  transposed  some  of  the  scenes  for  his 
own  managerial  convenience,  and  even  ventured 
to  add  a  few  lines  to  the  text.  There  was  no 
particular  harm  done — as  only  the  order,  not 
the  matter,  was  changed;  but  all  tinkering  of 
this  sort  in  the  case  of  masterpieces  is  unjusti- 
fiable. Elisions,  of  course,  and  condensations 
are  often  inevitable,  but  any  attempt  to  mod- 
ernize an  old  play — of  any  serious  value — by 
chopping  and  reconstruction  is  illogical  and  ab- 
surd on  the  face  of  it.  It  is  like  putting  new 
patches  upon  old  garments.  The  result  is  some- 
thing entirely  nondescript,  inharmonious,  and  in- 
significant. The  gem  of  the  present  performance 
was  the  Sir  Oliver  Surface  of  Harry  Edwards, 
which  was  the  best  I  remember.  Finished  to  the 
nail,  sturdy,  shrewd,  brimful  of  genial,  quizzi- 
cal humor,  it  was  a  most  vital  and  winning  im- 
personation. As  Charles  Surface  John  Drew 
gave  one  of  the  most  artistic  performances  of 
his  career.  His  impersonation  was  second  only 
to  that  of  Charles  Coghlan.  Especially  was  it 
praiseworthy  for  its  artistic  restraint  in  the 
drinking  scene — a  most  elaborate  set.  He  was 
perhaps  a  trifle  too  cool,  insufficiently  mercurial 

353 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

for  the  reckless  company  he  affected,  but  he  evi- 
dently remembered  that  Charles,  with  all  his 
follies,  was  a  decent  fellow  at  bottom,  and  not 
wholly  unworthy  of  the  eulogies  of  his  old  friend 
Eowley.  His  manner  was  elegant,  and  he  spoke 
his  lines  without  exaggerated  emphasis,  but  with 
a  full  appreciation  of  their  humor. 

In  the  screen  scene  his  mirthfulness  was  tem- 
pered by  the  intuitive  tactfulness  of  a  well-bred 
man.  He  exhibited  delicate  consideration  for  the 
feelings  of  the  stricken  husband  and  the  humili- 
ated woman,  while  revelling  in  the  discomfiture 
of  his  hypocritical  brother.  His  whole  conduct 
in  this  scene  was  an  achievement  in  the  first  rank 
of  artificial  comedy.  The  Joseph  Surface  of 
George  Clarke  was  another  excellent  bit  of  act- 
ing, elegant,  suave,  and  convincingly  plausible, 
the  real  hypocrisy  just  betraying  itself  beneath 
the  almost  unconscious  veneer  of  sham  senti- 
ment. In  variety  and  eloquence  of  facial  expres- 
sion it  was  uncommonly  felicitous.  The  Mrs. 
Candor  of  Mrs.  Gilbert,  the  Moses  of  James 
Lewis,  the  Backbite  of  Sidney  Herbert,  and  the 
Crabtree  of  Charles  Leclercq  were  all  capital.  Ada 
Behan  was  not  the  real  Lady  Teazle,  although 
filling  the  part  perfectly  to  the  eye.  Her  over- 
anxiety  about  her  points  betrayed  her  into  many 
inconsistencies  and  exaggerations.  There  is  no 

354 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

mystery  about  the  character.  Lady  Teazle  was 
a  young  girl,  bred  wholly  in  the  country,  trying, 
but  not  quite  successfully,  to  be  a  fine  lady. 
In  the  opening  scene  Miss  Eehan  was  too  much 
of  the  fine  lady,  and  in  others  not  enough.  In 
her  quarrel  with  Sir  Peter  she  adopted  the 
methods  of  low  comedy,  descending  almost  to 
the  level  of  Jenny  0' Jones.  Her  " country  girl," 
was  too  much  in  evidence.  In  the  screen  scene 
her  pretense  of  yielding  to  Joseph's  wooing  was 
so  plainly  false  that  it  could  never  have  beguiled 
that  astute  young  gentleman  into  a  declaration. 
After  the  discovery,  her  profession  of  penitence 
was  made  with  an  elaborate  deliberation  which 
precluded  all  confidence  in  her  sincerity,  but 
there  was  genuine  snap  in  her  biting  retort  upon 
the  discomfited  Joseph.  Her  Lady  Teazle,  how- 
ever, can  not  be  counted  among  her  conspicuous 
successes. 

Mr.  Daly,  doubtless,  trusted  greatly  to  the 
magic  of  Tennyson's  name  when  he  produced 
the  English  laureate's  woodland  play,  "The 
Foresters,"  in  1892.  It  was  a  chivalrous  and 
artistic  thing  to  do.  The  play  itself,  of  which 
Eobin  Hood  and  Maid  Marian  were  the  pro- 
tagonists, was  a  simple  compound,  almost  wholly 
devoid  of  dramatic  interest  or  consistency,  in 
which  nursery  legend  was  crudely  mixed  with 

355 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

melodrama.  From  the  literary  point  of  view, 
of  course,  it  was  worthy  of  all  the  scenic  adorn- 
ment with  which  Mr.  Daly  enriched  it.  The 
pure,  clear  English  of  the  text,  the  sweet,  fresh, 
wholesome  patriotic  spirit  that  pervades  it,  the 
deft  imitation  of  the  humor  in  Shakespeare's 
rural  scenes,  the  varied  and  insistent  music  of 
the  lines,  all  afforded  an  enjoyment  rare  indeed 
in  the  contemporary  theater.  But  there  was 
nothing  dramatic  in  it  and  not  much  that  was 
even  theatrical.  Ada  Rehan,  in  looking  pretty  as 
Maid  Marian,  and  John  Drew,  in  giving  Robin 
an  active  and  virile  appearance,  did  about  all 
that  it  was  possible  for  them  to  do. 

Many  eloquent  encomiums  were  lavished  upon 
the  production  of  ''Twelfth  Night,'*  which  Mr. 
Daly  produced  in  1893,  and  especially  upon  the 
Viola  of  Ada  Rehan.  I  wish  I  could  agree  with 
them.  Pictorially  the  representation  was  charm- 
ing, but  there  honest  praise  must  end.  Most  of 
the  actors  were  unequal  to  the  parts  assigned 
them,  and  the  general  performance  was  devoid 
alike  of  romance  and  poetry.  The  character  of 
Viola,  charged  with  the  most  delicate  and  fanci- 
ful sentiment,  was  outside  the  range  of  Ada 
Rehan,  except  in  those  phases  of  it  denoted  in 
the  comic  vein.  Her  delivery  of  verse,  whether 
blank  or  rhymed,  was  always  curiously  monoto-. 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

nous  and  inexpressive.  She  was  fairly  success- 
ful in  the  soliloquy  after  her  first  interview  with 
Olivia,  and  the  duel  scene — of  which,  in  accord- 
ance with  silly  tradition,  she  made  roaring  farce 
— but  in  the  sentimental  and  poetic  interludes 
her  droning  sing-song  robbed  the  lines  of  nearly 
all  their  poetic  essence.  She  was  lacking,  more- 
over, in  that  refined  and  measured  grace  of 
gesture  and  action  essential  to  illusion  in  any 
attempt  to  embody  a  conception  so  ethereal  and 
free  from  earthly  grossness. 


357 


XXIII 

MORE  ABOUT  AUGUSTIN  DALY'S  COMPANY— 
THE  MADISON  SQUARE  COMPANY 

CONVINCING  proof  of  Daly's  artistic  ambition 
was  furnished  in  1895,  when  he  revived  "The 
Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona,"  a  comedy  which  had 
not  been  seen  in  this  country  for  fifty  years. 
The  experiment,  it  must  be  added,  was  not  at- 
tended by  any  large  measure  of  success.  The 
play  is  not  a  good  one  for  acting  purposes, 
most  of  the  personages  being  shadowy  and  the 
story  confused  and  violently  improbable.  But 
the  dialogue  bears  the  unmistakable  stamp  of 
Shakespeare's  genius  in  many  isolated  passages 
full  of  delightful  grace  and  imagery,  quaint 
humor,  and  charming  sentiment.  Their  superfine 
quality  is  presumptive  evidence  of  corruption, 
or  divided  workmanship  in  other  parts  of  the 
text.  Mr.  Daly  did  not  try  to  produce  the  piece 
in  anything  like  its  original  form.  He  reduced 
the  five  acts  to  four,  cut  the  lines  freely,  and 
transposed  or  omitted  scenes  to  suit  his  own  pur- 
pose. No  fault  is  to  be  found  with  him  on  this 
count;  on  the  whole,  he  did  his  work  neatly  and 

358 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

with  sufficient  discretion,  presenting  an  acting 
version  that  ran  tolerably  smoothly  and  was 
fairly  coherent.  The  acting  was  of  passable 
merit,  but  never  brilliant  enough  to  impress  any 
part  of  it  indelibly  on  the  memory.  Ada  Rehan's 
Julia,  like  her  Viola,  exercised  the  personal  fas- 
cination of  the  actress.  The  Valentine  of  John 
Craig,  the  Duke  of  George  Clarke,  the  Sir  Thurio 
of  Sidney  Herbert,  the  Speed  of  Herbert  Gres- 
ham,  the  Lucetta  of  Sibyl  Carlisle,  and  the  Syl- 
via of  Miss  Elliot  were  all  capable,  and  James 
Lewis  was  exceedingly  comical  as  Launce.  But 
the  real  attractions  lay  in  the  stage  pictures, 
which  were  uncommonly  rich  in  spectacular  and 
artistic  beauty,  and  the  interpolated  music  of 
Sir  Henry  Bishop.  In  its  entirety  this  was 
choice  entertainment,  but  to  say  that  it  was 
Shakespearean  would  be  gross  flattery. 

Augustin  Daly  delayed  his  production  of 
"Much  Ado  About  Nothing"  far  too  long. 
When  he  essayed  this  scintillating  comedy  in 
1898  his  company  had  been  sorely  weakened  by 
death  and  desertion,  and  he  had  little  left  but 
his  scene  painters.  They,  as  often  before,  helped 
him  manfully  in  his  hour  of  need,  but  it  is  not 
for  the  framework  in  which  they  are  placed  that 
Shakespeare  lovers  go  to  see  Benedick  and  Bea- 
trice. His  scenic  apparatus  was  all  that  could 

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SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

be  desired — lie  never  stinted  care  or  money — > 
but  his  performers,  many  of  them  raw  recruits 
from  the  contemporary  theater,  were  utterly  at 
sea.  With  all  their  vivacity,  earnestness,  and 
general  intelligence,  they  had  none  of  the  as- 
surance, distinction,  gallantry,  or  address  indis- 
pensable in  literary  and  romantic  comedy. 

Some  of  our  modern  critics — many  of  whom 
never  saw  literary  comedy  or  tragedy  properly 
performed — are  very  contemptuous  in  their  ref- 
erences to  the  artificiality  and  unreality  of  the 
style  of  the  old-time  actors.  Of  course,  it  was 
artificial  and  unreal,  but  only  in  the  sense  that 
all  the  great  masterpieces  of  imaginative  fiction 
are  unreal.  It  was  a  style  deliberately  culti- 
vated, and  developed  through  some  centuries  of 
experience  to  harmonize  with,  and  give  full  ef- 
fect to,  incidents,  thoughts,  aspirations,  and  emo- 
tions outside  the  experience  of  common  humanity. 
It  did  not,  perhaps,  always  achieve  its  full  pur- 
pose, but  it  came  infinitely  nearer  to  the  realiza- 
tion of  the  fanciful  than  the  ignoble  and  slovenly 
utterance  and  unregulated,  spasmodic,  and  inex- 
pressive gesture  of  the  untaught,  and  self-acting 
player  ever  can.  It  involved  a  laborious  study 
of  artistic  principles,  and  it  was  abandoned 
chiefly  because  it  was  laborious.  As  the  demand 
for  actors  increased  with  the  multiplication  of 

360 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

speculative  theaters  and  modern  social  plays, 
the  opportunities  of  teaching  them  grew  less  and 
less.  If  Miss  Ada  Kehan  had  learned  the  secrets 
of  this  old  school,  her  Beatrice  would  not  have 
been  so  markedly  deficient  in  the  air  of  personal 
distinction  naturally  associated  with  the  bril- 
liant Lady  Disdain.  Her  impersonation,  although 
rightly  spirited,  was  somewhat  over-robust  and 
broad  in  humor.  It  was,  in  manner,  a  replica  of 
her  Lady  Teazle.  Beatrice  stands  upon  a  much 
higher  intellectual  plane,  and  her  wit  is  of  a 
keener  and  higher  order.  Not  that  Miss  Eehan 
failed  to  give  emphasis  to  her  lines;  on  the  con- 
trary, in  her  eagerness  to  make  the  most  of 
every  point,  she  delivered  her  thrusts  with  a 
deliberation  and  serious  intent  which  almost  con- 
veyed a  suggestion  of  malignity,  entirely  incon- 
sistent with  the  character.  Beatrice  was  half  in 
love  with  her  antagonist  when  she  rated  him  most 
sharply.  In  the  church  scene,  Miss  Eehan  won 
her  audience  by  a  fine  display  of  honest  womanly 
indignation,  but  she  never  really  "got  into  the 
skin"  of  Beatrice.  In  the  whole  of  this  repre- 
sentation there  were  but  two  characters  which 
were  adequately  portrayed.  One  was  the  Don 
John  of  Sidney  Herbert,  a  sinister,  Mephisto- 
phelian,  courtly  villain,  who  completely  satisfied 
the  imagination,  and  the  Dogberry  of  William 

361 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Griffiths,  which  had  all  the  owlish  solemnity,  dull 
persistency,  and  placid  self-content  of  that  monu- 
mental jackass. 

Here  is  a  convenient  place  to  say  farewell  to 
Daly's  Theater,  which  already  had  begun  to  lose 
some  of  its  earlier  prestige.  Since  the  death 
of  Lester  Wallack,  it  had  been  acknowledged  to 
be  the  leading  comedy  theater  of  the  country, 
but  it  was  only  in  the  lighter  forms  of  comedy 
that  it  habitually  excelled.  Mr.  Daly  suffered 
by  the  progressive  degeneracy  of  the  stage,  which 
in  his  day  was  very  rapid.  The  race  of  edu- 
cated, all-round  actors  was  dying  out,  and  in  his 
most  ambitious  efforts  he  was  handicapped  by 
the  lack  of  suitable  material.  There  was  no  ex- 
istent body  of  trained  actors  from  which  he 
could  obtain  recruits.  The  few  accomplished 
players  he  possessed  were  not  enough  to  carry 
the  company  safely  through  the  difficult  tasks 
assigned  to  them.  He  did  much  excellent  work, 
and  his  theater  for  many  years  was  an  institu- 
tion of  which  any  city  might  be  proud,  but  it 
was  not  a  productive  school.  It  contributed  noth- 
ing to  the  theater  of  the  future.  John  Drew 
and  Ada  Kehan,  indeed,  continued  to  revolve  in 
their  respective  orbits,  as  solitary  stars,  for 
many  years,  but  they  grew  no  brighter,  achieved 
no  new  renown.  They  only  continued  to  do  in 

362 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

the  old  way  what  they  had  done  many  times 
before.  When  it  was  too  late,  Mr.  Drew  tried 
to  break  the  shackles  that  bound  him  and  take 
a  step  upward.  He  essayed  Benedick — but  it 
would  be  futile  to  discuss  an  experiment  which 
is  not  likely  to  be  renewed. 

In  1885,  A.  M.  Palmer  assumed  the  manage- 
ment of  the  Madison  Square  Theater — a  pretty 
little  house  of  the  bandbox  variety,  which,  under 
the  earlier  direction  of  the  Eev.  Dr.  Mallory, 
had  been  chiefly  remarkable  for  the  enduring 
popularity  of  Steele  Mackaye's  ''Hazel  Kirke," 
in  which  much  excellent  acting  was  done  by  C. 
W.  Couldock,  Erne  Ellsler,  and  Eben  Plympton 
— with  an  uncommonly  able  company,  carefully 
collected  with  a  view  to  the  special  character  of 
the  work  to  be  done.  It  will  not  be  necessary  to 
linger  long  over  this  particular  chapter  of  New 
York  theatrical  history,  for  not  many  of  the 
plays  produced  had  much  literary  or  dramatic 
worth,  but  some  of  the  performances  were  alto- 
gether uncommon  in  their  histrionic  excellence. 
Mr.  Palmer  could  estimate  the  capacities  of  his 
actors  much  more  accurately  than  could  Mr. 
Daly  and  rarely  miscast  them.  He  began  opera- 
tions with  the  "Sealed  Instructions"  of  Mrs. 
J.  C.  Campbell  Verplanck,  a  melodrama  clearly 
preposterous  when  subjected  to  any  sort  of 

363 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

analysis,  but  packed  with  effective  situations  and 
sentiment  of  the  purely  theatrical  kind.  Nothing 
need  be  said  about  it.  But  the  acting  was  of  that 
competent  and  vivid  sort  that  establishes  tem- 
porary illusion. 

Jessie  Millward,  who  was  to  prove  herself  one 
of  the  cleverest  of  modern  actresses  in  melo- 
drama and  social  comedy,  made  a  living  creation 
of  an  impossible  heroine.  Her  embodiment  was 
signalized  by  delicacy,  tenderness,  glowing  emo- 
tion, vivacity,  refinement,  and  grace.  Her  crisp, 
clear,  resonant  and  tuneful  speech — few  actresses 
surpass  her  in  elocutionary  art — lent  distinction 
to  very  common  dialogue.  Henry  M.  Pitt,  an  Eng- 
lish actor  of  a  refined  but  somewhat  heavy  type, 
was  exactly  suited  in  the  character  of  a  drawling, 
imperturbable,  unscrupulous  reprobate,  with  a 
fine  veneer  of  social  polish.  Herbert  Kelcey 
played  the  maligned  and  self-sacrificing  hero 
with  fine  tact  and  manliness.  Fred  Eobinson, 
the  old  Sadler's  Wells  man — an  actor  of  invalu- 
able experience — enacted  an  ambassador  with 
authoritative  ease  and  forceful  skill;  W.  J. 
Lemoyne  made  a  small  part  prominent  by  the 
nicety  of  its  finish.  Annie  Russell  contributed 
a  charming  sketch  of  girlish  innocence.  The 
whole  representation  was  alive  from  start  to 
finish,  and  thus  substantial  success  was  won  by  a 

poor  play. 

364 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

There  was  much  more  sterling  quality  in 
"Saints  and  Sinners,"  which  must  always  have 
a  high  place  among  the  successful  plays  of  Henry 
Arthur  Jones.  It  is  too  well  known  to  need 
description.  The  story,  as  cavilling  critics  have 
suggested,  may  be  conventional,  the  treatment 
theatrical,  and  some  of  the  sentiment  a  trifle 
syrupy,  but  the  piece  is  full  of  strong,  vital, 
varied  characterization,  is  admirably  compact 
and  effective,  is  unquestionably  true  to  life  in 
many  of  its  details,  and  sane,  vigorous,  and 
wholesome  in  tone.  Not  many  better  plays  of 
its  class  have  been  seen  in  this  city.  J.  H. 
Stoddart  played  the  central  part  of  the  old  min- 
ister with  great  realism,  picturesqueness,  humor, 
pathos,  and  thrilling  bursts  of  passion.  The 
dignity  of  his  rebuke  to  the  seducer,  his  agony  of 
apprehension  and  fear  on  hearing  of  his 
daughter's  flight,  his  ecstasy  upon  her  recovery, 
and  his  triumph  over  temptation  in  the  scene 
with  the  deacons,  were  notable  points  in  a  memo- 
rable embodiment. 

The  hypocritical  Deacon  of  W.  J.  Lemoyne  was 
a  striking  study  finished  with  rare  delicacy  and 
firmness.  Davidge  depicted  a  sodden  old  drunk- 
ard with  a  realism  that  would  have  been  painful 
but  for  the  redeeming  vein  of  unctuous  humor. 
C.  P.  Flockton,  another  veteran,  was  a  babbling, 

365 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

greedy,  foolish  old  grocer  to  the  life.  L.  F. 
Massen  made  a  hit  by  the  simple  manliness  of 
the  rural  lover,  and  Herbert  Kelcey  was  an  at- 
tractive and  specious  seducer.  A  prettier  or  more 
sympathetic  heroine  than  Marie  Burroughs  could 
scarcely  have  been  found,  while  all  the  subordin- 
ate characters  were  of  a  corresponding  excel- 
lence. There  never  was  the  least  doubt  of  the 
success  of  this  representation.  I  can  not  recall 
more  than  two  or  three  instances  in  my  long 
experience  when  a  good  play,  well  performed, 
has  failed  to  find  appreciative  audiences.  Good 
acting  has  often  given  long  life  to  bad  plays,  and 
innumerable  good  plays  have  been  damned  on 
account  of  incompetent  representation,  but  where 
play  and  acting  are  both  good  the  public  judg- 
ment may  be  trusted  to  recognize  the  fact  and 
reward  it. 

Spectators  flocked  in  great  numbers  to  the 
Madison  Square  Theater  when  W.  S.  Gilbert's 
brilliant,  satirical  extravaganza  " Engaged"  was 
put  on.  In  this  case,  again,  the  entire  repre- 
sentation, scenic  and  histrionic,  was  admirable, 
worthy  of  the  intellectual  and  humorous  delights 
of  the  dialogue.  The  outstanding  feature  was  the 
Belinda  Treherne  of  Agnes  Booth,  an  almost 
perfect  realization  of  the  author's  ideal.  It  was 
a  delicious  bit  of  artistry,  as  good  an  example 

366 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

of  refined,  subtle,  and  spirited  burlesque  as  any 
one  could  wish  to  see.  In  facial  expression,  il- 
luminative gesture,  mock  heroics,  alert  attention 
veiled  by  feigned  abstraction,  it  was  infinitely 
dexterous,  neat,  imaginative,  and  consistent.  The 
tart  scene  was  inimitable.  Success  has  its  pen- 
alties. The  necessity  of  eating  so  many  tarts 
every  night  finally  brought  to  Mrs.  Booth  an 
anticipatory  nausea  which  threatened  calamity. 
Tarts  became  to  her  a  word  of  hideous  and  re- 
volting omen.  The  problem  was  solved  by  the 
ingenuity  of  the  pastry  cook,  who  evolved  a 
wafer  counterfeit,  empty  and  collapsible,  which 
could  be  disposed  of  without  passing  the  lips 
at  all,  and  without  the  audience  being  any  the 
wiser.  Thus  the  comedy  went  on,  and  the  tarts 
were  satisfactorily  consumed  without  being 
eaten. 

Soon  afterward  this  accomplished  actress  was 
seen  to  great  advantage  in  "Old  Love  Letters," 
the  miniature  comedy  into  which  Bronson  How- 
ard put  some  of  his  very  best  work.  This  was 
played  with  W.  S.  Gilbert's  poetical  satire, 
"Broken  Hearts,"  a  piece  flavored  with  a  some- 
what sour  cynicism,  but  of  very  positive  literary 
merit,  and  rich  in  quaint,  fanciful  humor  and 
human  experience.  This,  too,  was  singularly  well 
acted  and  most  tastefully  mounted.  Louis  Mas- 

367 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

sen  was  a  romantic  figure  as  Florian  and  played 
him  with  fervor,  grace,  and  discernment.  W. 
J.  Lemoyne  enacted  Mousta  with  complete  com- 
prehension and  ripe  skill,  while  Maud  Harrison, 
an  actress  noted  chiefly  for  her  archly  impish 
coquetry,  played  the  Lady  Hilda  with  sweet  and 
simple  seriousness  and  read  her  lines  most  musi- 
cally and  well.  These  were  entertainments  in 
which  the  most  intelligent  could  rejoice. 

"Jim  the  Penman"  was,  perhaps,  the  most  suc- 
cessful of  all  the  Madison  Square  productions. 
This  noted  play  of  Sir  Charles  Young  was  only 
melodrama,  of  course,  but  an  uncommonly  good 
specimen,  ingenious,  abounding  in  suspense  and 
situation,  very  adroitly  built,  and  vital  though 
conventional  in  characterization.  Of  itself  it 
was  not  of  much  importance,  but  good  melo- 
drama, with  the  throb  of  honest  emotion  in  it, 
and  a  plausible  resemblance  to  the  facts  of  life, 
is  a  form  of  art  and  has  its  legitimate  place  in 
the  best  theaters.  It  often  furnishes  opportuni- 
ties for  creative  acting  far  superior  to  those  of 
the  ordinary  social  play,  and  is  not  much  more 
remote  from  reality.  In  "Jim  the  Penman"  the 
acting  was  of  high  quality  throughout,  and  in 
some  respects  brilliant.  This  last  epithet  may 
be  applied  properly  to  the  Mrs.  Ralston  of  Agnes 
Booth.  She  had  to  play  the  part  of  a  good 

368 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

woman,  a  devoted  wife  and  mother,  suddenly 
awakened  to  the  fact  that  her  husband,  in  whom 
she  has  reposed  the  most  implicit  faith  and  trust, 
is  a  great  criminal.  The  knowledge  comes  to 
her  in  the  third  act,  when  she  discovers  a  forged 
signature  which  she  knows  he  has  written.  A 
finer  example  of  the  eloquence  of  facial  expres- 
sion than  she  exhibited  in  this  scene  has  seldom 
been  shown  upon  the  stage.  For  several  minutes 
she  sat  almost  motionless,  without  uttering  a 
word,  trusting  solely  to  the  play  of  her  features 
to  reveal  the  course  of  her  thoughts.  Any  fail- 
ure of  significance  would  have  made  the  scene 
tedious,  the  least  exaggeration  might  have  made 
it  ridiculous.  She  avoided  both  dangers  with 
the  surest  instinct,  and  held  the  audience  in 
frozen  suspense. 

It  was  acting  of  the  most  subtle,  delicate,  and 
intellectual  kind.  Subsequently  she  reaped  a 
whirlwind  of  applause  by  the  really  magnificent 
outburst  of  scornful  passion  with  which  she  de- 
nounced her  husband,  and  she  triumphed  again 
in  the  womanly  appeal  addressed  to  his  better 
nature  in  the  last  act.  Equally  fine  was  the  emo- 
tional pathos  she  displayed  in  the  farewell  scene 
with  her  daughter.  Only  a  most  accomplished 
artist  could  have  wrought  such  effects  with 
methods  of  such  exquisite  simplicity.  It  was 

369 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

work  worthy  of  a  great  dramatic  masterpiece, 
and  probably  was  the  finest  achievement  in  her 
career.  Frederick  Robinson,  a  thoroughly  ex- 
pert actor,  played  the  Penman  with  great  tact 
and  skill.  The  character  was  one  of  common 
melodramatic  type,  but  he  vitalized  it  by  his  in- 
telligence. The  minute  detail  with  which  he 
indicated  the  incessant  strain  of  suspicion  and 
anxiety  beneath  the  assumption  of  jovial  and 
placid  prosperity  was  exceedingly  clever,  and  in 
the  later  scenes  his  fits  of  rage  and  remorse  had 
power  and  sincerity.  Mr.  Pitt  was  manly  and 
attractive  as  a  virtuous  lover.  Mr.  Lemoyne 
furnished  a  vigorous  and  finished  study  of  a  for- 
eign sharper,  and  E.  M.  Holland  presented  an 
original  and  delightfully  humorous  sketch  of  a 
civil  service  detective.  "William  Davidge,  C.  P. 
Flockton,  Mrs.  Phillips,  Louis  Massen,  and  Maud 
Harrison  played  subordinate  parts  with  satisfy- 
ing competence.  This  was  not  only  a  good  show 
— it  was  a  first-rate  theatrical  performance. 

This  remark  would  be  true  also  of  "The 
Martyr,"  adapted  from  a  play  of  D'Ennery  by 
that  wily  theatrical  purveyor,  A.  R.  Cazauran, 
but  the  piece  itself  was  mere  theatrical  clap- 
trap, a  huddle  of  sensational  and  emotional  situ- 
ations. It  pleased  the  public  for  many  weeks, 
but  the  only  meritorious  thing  about  it  was  the 

370 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

performance.  Agnes  Booth,  Mrs.  E.  J.  Phil- 
lips, Fred.  Eobinson,  J.  H.  Stoddart,  William 
Davidge,  C.  P.  Flockton,  E.  M.  Holland,  and 
Maud  Harrison  all  distinguished  themselves,  and 
their  united  efforts  carried  the  play  safely  over 
many  perilous  places.  One  of  the  notable  per- 
formances that  contributed  to  the  success  was 
that  of  a  young  foreign  adventurer  by  Alexandro 
Salvini,  son  of  the  unapproachable  Tommaso, 
who,  beyond  question,  inherited  some  part  of  his 
father's  genius.  He  died  too  soon.  He  it  was 
who  won  the  chief  honors  in  "Partners,"  a  play 
which  Eobert  Buchanan  adapted,  not  maladroitly, 
from  "Fromont  Jeune  et  Eisler  aine." 

As  the  deceived  husband  he  demonstrated  his 
rare  powers  of  versatility,  his  sense  of  character, 
and  his  great  range  of  emotional  expression. 
There  was  scarcely  a  trace  of  his  personal  indi- 
viduality— which  was  of  a  striking  kind — or  even 
of  his  nationality,  in  the  middle-aged  German 
whom  he  presented.  His  jovial,  boisterous, 
awkward,  but  self-reliant,  loyal,  tender-hearted 
man  of  affairs  was  a  copy  from  life.  It 
was  in  the  passionate  scenes  of  the  third  and 
fourth  acts  that  he  gave  evidence  of  the  sacred 
fire  within  him,  and  electrified  the  house.  As 
the  ruin  of  his  business  and  the  threatened  dis- 
grace to  his  home  gradually  came  to  his  percep- 

371 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

tion,  the  variety  and  vividness  of  Ms  pantomime 
and  facial  expression  were  astonishing  in  one 
so  young.  The  artistic  restraint  which  he  ob- 
served in  the  earlier  scenes  was  in  splendid  con- 
trast with  the  paroxysms  of  fury  in  which  his 
rising  wrath  culminated.  He  gave  no  cause  for 
the  least  suspicion  of  rant.  The  control  he  held 
over  the  swelling  volume  of  his  passion  up  to 
the  climax  was  presumptive  evidence  of  genius. 
There  were  moments  in  his  denunciation 
of  his  foolish  wife  and  his  treacherous  partner, 
when,  in  vocal  volume,  terribleness  of  aspect,  and 
emotional  impulse,  he  recalled  memories  of  his 
mighty  sire.  One  of  them  was  at  that  instant 
when  he  stripped  the  jewels  from  his  kneeling 
wife.  By  this  single  performance  he  won  a  place 
in  the  first  rank  of  emotional  actors.  He  eclipsed 
all  his  associates — it  is  only  fair  to  add  that  he 
had  most  of  the  opportunities — but  E.  M.  Hol- 
land, Mrs.  E.  J.  Phillips,  William  Davidge,  C. 
P.  Flockton,  and  Marie  Burroughs  did  excel- 
lent work  in  the  supporting  cast. 

The  "Captain  Swift"  of  C.  Haddon  Chambers 
was  in  general  character  akin  to  "Jim  the  Pen- 
man," but  a  melodrama  of  much  inferior  quality. 
Here  its  inherent  weaknesses  were  increased  by 
a  feeble  "happy  ending."  Originally  the  hero, 
when  hopelessly  at  bay,  blew  out  his  brains, 

372 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF   THE    THEATER 

which  lent  the  piece  a  measure  of  dramatic  con- 
sistency and  dignity.  Structurally  considered  it 
was  cleverly  put  together,  but  there  was  nothing 
in  it  to  warrant  present  discussion.  The  per- 
formance, however,  if  not  in  all  respects  equal 
to  that  of  "Jim  the  Penman,"  was  not  far  be- 
hind it  in  merit.  Agnes  Booth  acted  very  finely 
in  the  somewhat  unsympathetic  part  of  the  hero- 
ine, and  Maurice  Barrymore,  then  in  the  heyday 
of  youth  and  vigor,  was  a  picturesque  hero,  and 
acted  well  until  he  was  asked  to  be  pathetic.  J. 
H.  Stoddart,  Fred  Eobinson,  E.  M.  Holland, 
Annie  Russell,  and  Marie  Burroughs  all  had  parts 
nicely  suited  to  their  respective  capacities,  and 
every  theatrical  opportunity  in  the  play  re- 
ceived its  full  value.  Such  a  representation  would 
have  insured  the  success  of  a  much  sillier  piece. 
In  "Aunt  Jack,"  an  English  farcical  comedy, 
by  Ralph  R.  Lumley,  in  which  Mrs.  John  Wood 
had  delighted  London  for  months,  Agnes  Booth, 
who  was  not  regarded  generally  as  a  comic 
actress — her  Constance  in  "King  John"  enjoyed 
high  repute — demonstrated  her  all-round  train- 
ing and  elastic  ability.  She  presented  a  most 
lifelike  type  of  a  peppery,  impetuous,  self-willed, 
somewhat  vulgar,  but  thoroughly  warm-hearted 
woman.  Her  performance  was  one  that  Mrs. 
John  Wood  herself  might  have  been  proud  of, 

373 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

and  she  was  admirably  assisted  by  E.  M.  Holland, 
J.  H.  Stoddart,  Fred  Eobinson,  and  Maud  Har- 
rison. The  play  was  naught,  but  the  representa- 
tion was  good  enough  to  justify  the  production. 
In  "A  Pair  of  Spectacles"  ("Les  Petits 
Oiseaux"),  one  of  the  happiest  adaptations  of 
Sidney  Grundy,  the  Madison  Square  company 
gave  further  proof  of  its  general  competency. 
The  play,  one  of  those  precious  comedies  in 
which  a  structure  of  delightful  and  natural  hu- 
mor is  reared  upon  a  foundation  of  wise  and 
sympathetic  philosophy,  is  too  well  known  to 
need  description.  The  parts  of  the  two  brothers 
were  entrusted  to  the  veteran  J.  H.  Stoddart 
and  E.  M.  Holland.  The  former,  a  comedian  of 
a  dry  and  somewhat  pungent  order,  was  not  able, 
perhaps,  to  personify  all  the  radiant,  beaming 
benignity  with  which  John  Hare  endowed  the 
philanthropic  Benjamin,  but  in  his  white  locks 
and  gold  spectacles  he  was  a  striking  picture  of 
elderly  amiability.  His  acting  in  the  earlier 
scenes  was  exceedingly  subtle  and  delicate,  the 
easy  deliberation  of  his  manner,  suave  gesture, 
gentle  speech,  and  ever-ready  smile  being  con- 
sistently emblematic  of  a  generous,  contented, 
unsuspicious  nature.  It  was  all  upon  the  level 
of  high  comedy,  a  genuine  study  from  nature 
idealized  and  illumined  by  art  and  humor.  Most 

374 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

artistic  was  his  denotement  of  the  slow  develop- 
ment of  the  evil  spirit  engendered  in  him  by  the 
teaching  of  his  brother  and  his  own  unlucky  dis- 
coveries of  imposture.  The  various  stages  of 
his  transformation  through  the  use  of  Gregory's 
hideously  practical  spectacles  were  marked  with 
an  exquisite  sense  of  proportion.  In  the  end  he 
was  somewhat  too  vehement  and  noisy,  giving 
too  much  rein  to  the  comic  impulse  within  him, 
but  his  performance  as  a  whole  was  masterly. 

E.  M.  Holland,  whose  task  was  less  difficult, 
was  almost  equally  good  as  the  grasping,  grind- 
ing Sheffield  merchant,  Gregory.  In  dress, 
manner,  and  movement  he  represented  a  con- 
vincing image  of  bull-headed  self-reliance,  wide- 
awake shrewdness  and  selfish  prosperity.  There 
was  a  chill  in  the  very  humor  of  it.  Maud  Har- 
rison played  the  part  of  Benjamin's  young  and 
affectionate  wife  in  exactly  the  right  mood  of 
semi-comic,  semi-pathetic  amazement  and  per- 
plexity. Minor  parts  were  played  by  Fred  Bob- 
inson  and  others  with  unfailing  cooperative  in- 
telligence. This  good  performance  of  a  good 
play  found  the  usual  reward  in  the  cordial  and 
prolonged  appreciation  of  the  public. 

The  record  in  these  pages  does  not  pretend  to 
be  complete  or  consecutive.  Its  only  aim  is  to 
note  briefly  those  personal  and  managerial 

375 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

achievements  upon  the  New  York  stage,  in  my 
experience  of  it,  which  seem  most  deserving  of 
remembrance.  After  "A  Pair  of  Spectacles" 
nothing  of  special  note  occurred  at  the  Madison 
Square  Theater,  which  A.  M.  Palmer  was  soon 
to  relinquish  to  assume  control  of  Wallack's, 
where  his  good  fortune  deserted  him.  His  choice 
of  plays — most  of  them  have  been  long  forgotten 
— was  not  happy,  and  although  they  were  always 
admirably  mounted  and  excellently  performed — 
some  very  brilliant  work  was  done  by  J.  H. 
Stoddart  and  Fred  Robinson  in  a  clever  but 
incredible  play,  by  Sidney  Grundy,  called  "The 
Broken  Seal" — they  failed  to  please  the  public, 
and  before  long  a  career  of  hitherto  almost  un- 
broken prosperity  ended  in  financial  disaster. 
Mr.  Palmer  was  a  valuable  asset  to  the  American 
theater  in  his  day.  Although  comparatively  few 
of  the  plays  that  he  produced  were  of  any  great 
literary  or  dramatic  consequence,  they  were  for 
the  most  part  excellent  specimens  of  their  kind, 
and  in  all  the  details  of  production — cast,  scen- 
ery, and  stage  management — he  always  exhibited 
taste,  liberality,  and  knowledge. 


376 


XXIV 

THE  LYCEUM  THEATER  COMPANY 

AMONG  the  stock  companies  of  the  period  now 
under  consideration,  that  of  the  Lyceum  Theater 
under  the  management  of  Daniel  Frohman  must 
not  be  overlooked.  It  was  not,  in  the  strictest 
sense  of  the  phrase,  a  stock  company,  for  it 
underwent  a  good  many  changes  from  season 
to  season,  recruits  coming  and  going  pretty  fre- 
quently, but  it  generally  had  a  backbone  of  ster- 
ling players,  who  gave  artistic  tone  and  sub- 
stance to  performances  of  a  very  varied  charac- 
ter. Mr.  Frohman  was — and  still  is,  in  spite  of 
his  recent  association  with  the  "movies" — essen- 
tially a  theatrical  man.  Associated  with  the  foot- 
lights, in  one  capacity  or  another,  from  early 
youth,  he  has  probably  forgotten  more  about 
the  practical  details  of  production,  in  and  out 
of  the  theater,  than  any  of  his  professional  asso- 
ciates ever  knew.  His  invaluable  experience  was 
reinforced  by  great  executive  ability,  indefati- 
gable industry,  shrewdness,  and  good  taste. 
Strong  as  was  the  commercial  instinct  in  him 
— and  it  is  in  the  ideal  commercial  theater  that 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

anything  like  a  permanent  theatrical  revival  must 
be  looked  for — it  did  not  dominate  his  artistic 
ambition  to  establish  a  theater  which  should 
meet  the  support  of  fastidious  playgoers.  And 
his  efforts  in  this  direction  were  successful  in 
considerable  degree.  But  this  ambition  was 
qualified  by  an  inherent  distrust  of  the  capacity 
of  the  public  to  appreciate  the  values  of  dramatic 
art  in  its  best  forms,  and  in  seeking  the  "popu- 
lar" he  sometimes  fell  below  the  level  of  his 
own  standards.  Nevertheless  there  were  some 
superior  plays  and  much  excellent  acting  at  the 
Lyceum  under  his  direction,  and  several  of  the 
younger  players  who  served  their  apprenticeship 
there  proved  the  efficiency  of  the  training  by 
developing  into  successful  stars.  Prominent 
among  these  were  E.  H.  Sothern,  Georgia  Cay- 
van,  Mary  Mannering,  J.  K.  Hackett,  and  Henry 
Miller. 

Not  many  of  the  plays  produced  will  need  even 
passing  notice.  Few  of  them  failed  completely — 
for  Mr.  Frohman  did  not  make  many  serious 
mistakes — and  all  of  them  were  capably  acted 
and  admirably  mounted;  but  some  were  mere 
trifles,  others  of  a  conventional  social  type,  and 
comparatively  few  distinguished.  The  total  rec- 
ord was  honorable  rather  than  brilliant.  In  '  *  One 
of  Our  Girls"  (1885)  Mr.  Bronson  Howard  chose 

378 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

for  his  subject  the  vast  differences  between  the 
French  and  American  systems  in  matrimonial 
engagements.  The  piece  was  one  of  his  most 
popular  achievements,  but  was  not  a  very  valu- 
able contribution  to  drama  or  social  philosophy. 
It  had  some  literary  skill — the  dialogue  being 
lively,  crisp,  and  effective — but  told  a  most  im- 
probable story  and  was  full  of  flagrant  exaggera- 
tions. His  American  girl  was  made  to  talk  and 
act  in  a  manner  which  would  have  greatly  aston- 
ished the  circles  she  was  supposed  to  adorn  and 
was  interpreted  by  an  actress,  Helen  Dauvray, 
who  had  not  the  tact  to  soften  her  asperities, 
but  rather  enhanced  them.  There  was,  however, 
an  abundance  of  clap-trap  to  tickle  the  ears  of 
the  groundlings.  But  there  was  a  scene  in  the 
third  act  in  which  E.  H.  Sothern,  then  a  novice 
gave  evidence  of  the  stuff  that  was  in  him  by  a 
nicely  conceived  bit  of  quiet,  dignified,  manly 
acting,  which  won  for  him  a  special  recall. 

This  probably  prompted  Mr.  Frohman  to  give 
him  the  part  of  Prosper  Couramont  in  a  revival 
of  "A  Scrap  of  Paper"  a  year  later.  It  was  a 
risky  experiment  thus  to  challenge  comparison 
with  one  of  Lester  Wallack's  most  admired  im- 
personations, but  the  young  actor  endured  the 
ordeal  with  credit.  He  had  not  the  presence, 
the  authority,  the  quizzical  humor,  or  the  consum- 

379 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

mate  art  of  his  illustrious  predecessor,  but  lie 
played  with  refinement,  vivacity,  and  vigor,  and 
altogether  did  exceedingly  well.  In  "The  High- 
est Bidder,"  a  mixture  of  farce  and  melodrama, 
he  assumed  a  part  that  was  specially  devised  for 
his  father,  E.  A.  Sothern,  and  made  a  decided 
hit,  although  he  laid  himself  open  to  the  charge 
of  exaggeration  both  in  the  more  comic  and  seri- 
ous scenes.  He  was  still  in  his  formative  period, 
but  his  progress  in  executive  ability  was  rapid, 
and,  soon  afterward,  his  unflagging  vivacity  as 
the  impecunious  young  journalist  in  "The  Great 
Pink  Pearl"  won  him  a  substantial  success.  At 
this  time  his  chief  strength  seemed  to  be  in  scenes 
of  comic  perplexity. 

"The  Wife,"  a  social  play  in  which  Messrs. 
De  Mille  and  Belasco  collaborated,  may  be  per- 
mitted to  remain  in  oblivion,  but  it  afforded  op- 
portunities to  Herbert  Kelcey  and  two  rising 
young  actors,  Henry  Miller  and  Georgia  Cay- 
van.  Henry  Miller,  as  a  lover,  interpreted  some 
emotional  scenes  with  impressive  force,  if  some- 
what crude  methods,  and  Georgia  Cayvan,  an  ac- 
tress of  sound  intelligence  and  conscientious  pur- 
pose, who  was  graduated  from  the  lecture  plat- 
form, and  whose  acting  always  showed  the  influ- 
ence of  that  experience,  displayed  much  true  feel- 
ing and  a  tactful  self-restraint  in  making  the 

380 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

confession  of  a  repentant  wife.  She  was  not 
gifted  with  any  large  amount  of  imagination  or 
inspiration,  but  her  frank  and  hearty  manner 
and  precise,  confident  method  were  attractive  and 
satisfying,  and  she  was  a  great  favorite  at  the 
Lyceum  for  several  years.  She  and  Herbert 
Kelcey  were  curiously  cast  in  a  revival  of  Pin- 
ero's  "Sweet  Lavender,"  which  had  a  long  run. 
Pinero,  who  apparently  adopted  his  idea  of 
an  American  gentleman  from  the  columns  of 
Punch,  drew  his  Horace  Bream,  a  supposed  New 
Yorker,  in  the  spirit  of  burlesque.  This  charac- 
ter was  entrusted  to  Mr.  Kelcey,  the  only  Eng- 
lishman in  the  cast.  Miss  Cayvan  had  to  be  Miss 
Gilfillian,  an  Englishwoman  of  a  pronounced 
type.  Neither  performer  made  the  slightest  ap- 
proach to  the  intent  of  the  author,  but  by  ignor- 
ing it  greatly  added  to  the  plausibility  of  the 
comedy.  Mr.  Kelcey  converted  the  pushful 
American,  who  carries  his  point  always  by  sheer 
force  of  "bluff"  and  "cheek,"  into  a  vivacious, 
resourceful,  but  courteous  gentleman,  while  Miss 
Cayvan,  stripping  Miss  Gilfillian  of  her  prim- 
ness and  awful  respect  for  propriety,  presented 
her  as  a  charming,  bright,  and  unaffected  speci- 
men of  womanhood.  The  result  of  the  double 
misrepresentation  was  altogether  satisfactory. 
The  general  interpretation  of  the  play  was  ad- 

381 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

mirable.  Mr.  Lemoyne,  always  to  be  depended 
upon  in  eccentric  comedy,  was  overweighted  in 
the  purely  pathetic  scenes  of  Dick  Phenyl,  but 
played  him  delightfully  in  the  lighter  passages, 
with  rich  humor  and  artistic  realism. 

The  company  was  scarcely  equal  to  the  emo- 
tional requirements  of  "The  Marquise,"  a  ver- 
sion of  Sardou's  "Ferreol,"  which  was  one  of 
the  earlier  Union  Square  successes,  but  Miss  Cay- 
van  played  the  heroine  with  notable  ability.  She 
atoned  largely  for  her  want  of  finesse  by  her 
manifest  sincerity.  In  the  meeting  with  her 
former  lover,  when  she  realizes  the  dilemma  in 
which  she  has  been  placed  by  her  imprudence, 
she  interpreted  with  unaffected  naturalness  the 
conflicting  emotions  of  a  loving  wife  and  devoted 
mother,  forced  to  decide  between  clear  duty  and 
self-interest.  Her  performance  at  the  crisis 
marked  an  upward  step  in  her  histrionic  prog- 
ress. In  the  third  act  she  was  too  boisterous, 
but  in  the  final  act  her  confession  was  made  with 
a  simplicity  that  was  really  fine.  An  excellent 
reader  always,  the  set  deliberation,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes  and  throat,  with  which  she  brokenly 
recited  the  story  of  her  indiscretion,  was  highly 
artistic.  Mr.  Lemoyne,  as  the  gamekeeper,  was 
the  only  player  in  the  supporting  cast  who  real- 
ized all  his  opportunities.  He  furnished  a  mem- 

382 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

orable  study  of  malignant  cunning,  and  desper- 
ate villany. 

"The  Idler"  was  one  of  the  notable  produc- 
tions at  the  Lyceum.  Of  no  real  dramatic  con- 
sequence, this  piece  demonstrated  the  uncommon 
ingenuity  of  Haddon  Chambers  in  the  concoction 
of  a  melodramatic  plot,  false  to  nature  and  fact, 
but  bristling  with  stirring  theatrical  scenes  of 
incident  and  emotion,  and  fairly  plausible  in  its 
rapidity  of  action.  It  was  remarkably  well  acted 
throughout.  Miss  Cayvan,  as  the  heroine,  in  the 
various  crises  to  which  she  was  subjected,  sur- 
passed herself  not  only  in  passionate  utterance, 
but  in  the  denotement  of  suppressed  agitation. 
She  had  not  the  artistic  cunning  of  Agnes  Booth 
or  any  of  the  marvelous  faculty  of  Clara  Morris 
for  suggesting  untold  agonies  beneath  a  stony 
calm.  There  was  no  intimation  in  her  emotional 
language  of  something  greater  and  deeper  that 
could  be  uttered.  All  lay  upon  the  surface.  But 
her  vigor  and  earnestness  created  at  least  the  mo- 
mentary illusion  sufficient  in  plays  never  meant 
to  provoke  reflection.  In  "The  Idler"  they  ful- 
filled every  requirement.  Mr.  Kelcey,  Nelson 
Wheatcroft,  W.  J.  Lemoyne,  Mrs.  Charles  Wai- 
cot,  Effie  Shannon,  and  others  lent  her  most 
efficient  support. 

After   this,    Mr.    Frohman   revived   the    "Old 

383 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Heads  and  Young  Hearts"  of  that  theatrical 
Autolycus,  Dion  Boucicault.  He  wished,  presum- 
ably, to  give  his  company  a  trial  in  the  old  arti- 
ficial comedy  of  which  this  piece  was  a  more  or 
less  ingenious  imitation.  But  the  experiment  was 
not  very  successful  from  the  artistic  point  of 
view.  Herbert  Kelcey  was  a  satisfactory  Little- 
ton Coke,  and  Charles  Walcot — both  these  actors 
had  a  Wallack  experience  behind  them — was  capi- 
tal as  the  explosive  Col.  Eocket,  but  W.  J.  Le- 
moyne's  Jesse  Rural  was  but  a  poor  substitute 
for  that  of  John  Gilbert,  and  Miss  Cayvan  lacked 
the  distinction  that  should  belong  to  Lady  Alice. 
Most  of  the  minor  characters  were  at  sea.  A 
return  was  quickly  made  to  modern  melodrama 
in  the  ' '  Squire  Kate ' '  of  Robert  Buchanan.  This 
play,  which  proved  popular,  was  one  of  exceed- 
ingly unequal  merit.  Conventional,  and  not  a 
little  absurd,  in  its  main  incidents,  it  contained 
some  admirable  dialogue  and  a  good  feminine 
study  in  the  character  of  Kate  Thorpe,  the  hero- 
ine, a  generous  woman  temporarily  transformed 
by  bitter  disappointment  and  jealousy.  It  suited 
Miss  Cayvan  admirably,  and  she  made  a  great 
hit  in  it.  There  is  one  scene  in  which  Kate,  who 
has  just  been  beguiled  into  declaring  her  love 
for  a  young  bailiff,  discovers  that  her  sister  is 
her  successful  rival  and  overwhelms  her  with  a 

384 


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O 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

torrent  of  fiery  denunciation  and  scorn,  lashing 
herself  into  increasing  frenzy  until  she  falls 
exhausted  and  senseless.  It  is,  of  course,  a  bit 
of  sheer  theatricalism,  but  it  provided  just  the 
opportunity  in  which  Miss  Cayvan  could  display 
her  most  effective  resources.  The  demonstration 
called  for  physical  rather  than  imaginative  pow- 
ers, and  she  made  it  with  a  vehemence  and  vigor 
which  were  exceedingly  impressive.  Her  per- 
formance greatly  helped  the  play  and  her  own 
reputation. 

She  next  appeared  in  two  plays  specially  writ- 
ten for  the  Lyceum  Theater  by  Sardou.  The 
first,  "Americans  Abroad,"  was  a  comedy,  in 
which  an  heiress  pretended  to  be  ruined  in  order 
to  test  her  lover,  and  the  second,  "A  Woman's 
Silence,"  a  melodrama,  whose  violent  incredibil- 
ity was  imperfectly  atoned  for  by  the  ingenuity 
of  its  workmanship.  Neither  of  them  was  im- 
portant, and  in  neither  of  them  did  she  appear 
to  special  advantage.  In  "The  Amazons"  of 
Pinero  she  made  one  of  a  charming  trio  with 
Bessie  Tyree  and  Katharine  Florence,  but  there 
was  nothing  in  the  part  of  the  Lady  Noel  to 
test  her  real  capacity.  Her  reputation  as  a  lead- 
ing aictress  was  now  assured,  but  her  health  failed 
her,  and  she  did  not  live  long  to  profit  by  it. 
Whether  she  would  have  made  much  further 

385 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

progress  in  her  art,  had  she  survived,  is  doubtful. 
Her  place  at  the  Lyceum  was  taken  by  Isabel 
Irving,  a  capable  actress,  less  gifted  by  natural 
advantages.  She  appeared  with  Herbert  Kel- 
cey  in  H.  A.  Jones's  "The  Case  of  Rebellious 
Susan,"  but  was  scarcely  equal  to  the  part  of 
the  adventurous  Lady  Susan  Harrabin.  Nor  was 
any  remarkable  success  secured  by  her  or  the 
company  in  "The  Ideal  Husband"  of  Oscar 
Wilde — a  characteristic  work,  with  a  brilliant  be- 
ginning and  feeble  ending — or  in  "The  Home 
Secretary"  of  Sidney  Carton.  A  production  of 
more  note  was  "The  Benefit  of  the  Doubt,"  by 
Pinero,  a  remarkably  clever  study  of  contem- 
porary social  life,  albeit  somewhat  chilling  in 
its  cynical  tone.  In  this  the  acting  honors  were 
carried  off  by  Stephen  Grattan,  Herbert  Kelcey, 
Mr.  Lemoyne,  and  Mrs.  Whiff  en.  The  general 
representation  was  marred  by  the  excessive  zeal 
of  some  of  the  players  who  overacted.  Miss  Irv- 
ing committed  the  error — in  a  scene  of  semi- 
intoxication — of  making  the  heroine  actually 
drunk.  In  fact,  the  company  in  those  days  was 
in  partial  eclipse.  The  advent  of  a  new  leading 
woman,  Mary  Mannering,  an  actress  of  much 
personal  charm  and  varied  but  not  brilliant  abil- 
ity, did  not  help  matters  much.  Several  plays, 
including  "The  Late  Mr.  Castillo,"  "The  First 

386 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Gentleman  of  Europe,"  and  "The  Mayflower," 
all  of  moderate  quality,  were  produced  without 
exciting  much  public  enthusiasm. 

A  change  for  the  better,  however,  came  with 
"The  Princess  and  the  Butterfly"  of  A.  W.  Pin- 
ero.  This  was  a  brilliant  but  disappointing  play, 
with  scarcely  a  dull  line  in  it,  and  much  clever 
characterization,  but  no  real  dramatic  purpose  or 
substance.  The  attractive  title  of  "The  Fantas- 
tics"  perhaps  characterizes  it  most  accurately. 
The  opening  scenes  warranted  the  expectation 
of  an  impending  emotional,  social,  or  dramatic 
crisis  of  some  sort,  but  all  suggested  problems 
were  left  unsolved,  and  a  conventional  ending 
precipitately  provided  with  the  union  of  three 
or  four  pairs  of  happy  lovers.  The  piece  owed 
its  success  primarily  to  the  dialogue — most  of 
the  acting  being  undistinguished — but  chiefly  to 
the  Fay  Juliana  of  Mary  Mannering,  who  in 
appearance  and  natural  style  fitted  the  part  very 
neatly.  It  was  that  of  a  high-spirited,  wayward, 
beautiful  girl,  secretly  in  love  with  the  middle- 
aged  guardian  whom  she  plagued  and  puzzled. 
Hearing  that  he  contemplated  marriage  with  an 
ancient  flame,  now  widowed,  she  yields  to  a  fit 
of  hysterical  passion  in  which  she  unwittingly 
betrays  the  true  state  of  her  affections.  This 
scene,  written  with  the  skill  and  insight  of  Pin- 

387 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF   THE    THEATER 

ero  at  his  best,  was  played  by  Miss  Manner  ing 
with  a  realistic  mimicry  of  girlish  petulance  and 
passion  that  carried  conviction,  and  assured  the 
popularity  of  the  play.  The  fascination  of  her 
natural  manner  assisted  in  her  triumph,  but  a 
large  share  of  it  was  due  to  intelligent  and  force- 
ful acting.  She  further  established  herself  in 
public  favor  as  the  fair  heroine  in  "Trelawney 
of  the  Wells,"  in  which  she  was  a  most  piquant 
figure.  She  played  the  comedy  scenes  charm- 
ingly, with  dignity  and  coquettish  grace,  and  the 
few  emotional  episodes  in  the  Chancellor's  house 
with  spirit  and  sincerity.  Actually  the  part  was 
no  severe  test  of  her  ability,  but  she  played  it 
like  an  artist  and  gave  it  life.  Pinero  's  sparkling 
but  somewhat  unfair  and  ill-natured  satire  of  the 
old-time  actors — they  were  not  all  Vincent 
Crummleses — is  so  familiar  that  only  the  brief- 
est reference  to  it  can  be  permitted.  The  per- 
formance of  it  at  the  Lyceum  was,  on  the  whole, 
a  good  one.  Charles  Walcot,  indeed — a  veteran 
who  ought  to  have  known  better — changed  farce 
into  silly  travesty  by  his  gross  exaggeration  of 
the  Chancellor,  but  Mr.  Boniface  and  Mrs. 
Walcot  were  delightful  as  the  male  and  female 
''heavies.'*  Mrs.  Whiffen  was  in  her  element  as 
a  theatrical  landlady,  Hilda  Spong  was  perfect 
as  the  soubrette,  Bessie  Tyree  excellent  as  the 

388 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

young  lady  with  genius  for  pantomime.  E.  J. 
Morgan  lacked  the  Bohemian  touch  that  should 
distinguish  Tom  Wrench,  but  the  general  repre- 
sentation left  so  agreeable  an  impression  that  it 
makes  a  convenient  place  to  close  this  summary 
review  of  the  Lyceum  Theater. 


389 


XXV 

JULIA  MARLOWE  AND  E.  H.  SOTHERN 

IN  dealing  with  the  comparatively  recent  past 
it  is  somewhat  difficult  to  avoid  touching  upon 
the  present.  For  various  reasons  I  wish  to  con- 
fine these  reminiscences,  as  far  as  possible,  to 
the  nineteenth  century,  but  occasional  reference 
to  affairs  of  the  twentieth  is  inevitable.  One 
has  to  be  made,  for  instance,  in  the  excep- 
tional case  of  those  twin  stars,  E.  H.  Sothern  and 
Julia  Marlowe.  Both  of  them  attained  profes- 
sional eminence  before  1900,  and  both  have  made 
great  advances  since  then  in  national  and  artis- 
tic reputation.  As  I  write  I  can  not  think  of  any 
other  theatrical  performers  to  whom  this  remark 
would  truthfully  apply.  The  stars  of  the  past 
are  dead  or  no  brighter,  while  those  of  the  pres- 
ent are  lesser  luminaries  altogether.  The  early 
connection  of  Mr.  Sothern  with  the  Lyceum 
Theater  suggests  this  as  the  proper  place  for  a 
review  of  his  later  career.  His  development 
from  the  lightest  of  farcical  comedians  into  a 
popular  tragedian  is  a  remarkable  phenomenon 
in  these  later  days,  when  most  successful  actors 

390 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

are  content  to  be  specialists  in  the  art  of  playing 
but  one  character,  and  that  their  own,  but  has 
abundant  precedent  in  the  history  of  the  older 
theater,  in  which  one  man  in  his  time  played 
many  parts.  Actually  he  passed  through  a  course 
of  training  very  similar  to  that  which  was  the 
common  experience  of  beginners  in  the  old  stock 
companies.  When  he  began  he  was  the  veriest 
tyro,  and  he  had  to  contend  with  some  special 
disadvantages.  He  was  mannered,  he  was  awk- 
ward, his  carriage  and  stature  were  unimposing, 
and  his  voice  lacking  in  power  and  flexibility. 

On  the  other  hand,  he  had  brains,  artistic 
ambition,  a  studious  disposition,  and  indefatiga- 
ble industry.  From  his  father — a  highly  accom- 
plished comedian  with  tragic  aspirations  which 
were  never  gratified — he  undoubtedly  inherited 
a  considerable  share  of  dramatic  intuition.  But 
he  never — within  my  experience — exhibited  any- 
thing resembling  genius,  any  flash  of  genuine 
dramatic  inspiration.  His  progress,  which  was 
slow  but  constant,  was  to  be  noted  chiefly  in 
the  steady  improvement  in  his  mechanism,  the 
increasing  vigor  and  decision  of  his  execution, 
his  growing  confidence,  and  the  notable  develop- 
ment of  his  vocal  powers.  From  the  first  he 
showed  a  lively  appreciation  of  humorous  situa- 
tion and  could  assume,  without  effort,  the  digni- 

391 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

fied  self-possession  of  the  well-bred  man.  He 
could  denote  cool  contempt,  anger,  and  indig- 
nation, but  for  a  long  time  his  passion  was  apt 
to  be  merely  noisy,  while  his  pathos  was  monot- 
onous and  artificial.  The  under  swell  of  the  pro- 
founder  emotions  he  never  could  suggest  by  any 
magic  spell  of  voice  or  gesture,  but  he  became 
more  and  more  adroit  and  forceful  in  the  coun- 
terfeit of  surface  manifestations.  During  his 
alliance  with  Virginia  Harned  he  tried  his  wings 
in  various  flights  of  romance.  In  "The  Lady 
of  Lyons"  he  was  utterly  unable  to  vitalize  the 
gushing  sentimentality  of  Bulwer  Lytton.  Alert 
and  capable  in  action,  he  was  completely  beaten 
by  the  rhapsodical  verse.  In  poetry  of  any  kind 
his  delivery,  with  its  falling  inflections  and  in- 
variable ending  upon  the  same  mournful  note, 
was  apt  to  be  lifeless  and  lugubrious.  As  Claude 
he  had  none  of  the  romantic  fire  of  Fechter  or 
the  clear  and  melodious  diction  of  Kyrle  Bellew. 
He  gave  an  accurate  but  soulless  copy  of  a  tra- 
ditional form. 

He  succeeded  better  in  "The  Sunken  Bell" 
and  "The  King's  Musketeers,"  and  won  some- 
thing like  a  triumph  in  the  "If  I  Were  King"  of 
Justin  Huntly  McCarthy,  one  of  the  best  roman- 
tic dramas  written  in  a  good  many  years.  As  a 
vagabond  poet?  Villon,  created  Constable  of 

392 


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SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

France  for  a  week,  with  the  certainty  of  death 
at  the  end  of  it,  if  in  the  meantime  he  could 
not  win  a  proud  princess,  he  acted  with  a  spirit 
and  variety  of  resource  which  left  little  to  be 
desired.  But  in  none  of  these  plays,  or  in  "The 
Song  of  the  Sword,"  was  there  any  intellectual 
problem  or  any  of  the  emotions  whose  sources 
lie  in  the  hidden  well-springs  of  the  heart.  These 
difficulties  he  was  to  encounter  when  he  presented 
himself  as  Hamlet  in  1900.  This  impersonation 
was  an  unfinished  product,  which  was  to  improve 
in  respect  to  finish  and  consistency  in  later  years, 
but  remained  essentially  a  good  second-rate  per- 
formance. "What  it  chiefly  lacked  was  intellectual, 
personal,  and  spiritual  distinction,  the  touch  of 
transforming  magic  that  puts  the  seal  of  genius 
upon  the  work  of  the  conscientious  craftsman. 
It  rarely  descended  to  the  level  of  mere  medi- 
ocrity. The  technical  execution  was,  in  the  main, 
correct  and  prompted  by  carefully  calculated 
design. 

A  better  general  effect,  indeed,  would  have 
been  gained  if  the  laborious  care  bestowed  upon 
minute  detail  had  been  less  apparent.  Anxiety 
over  "points"  betrayed  him  occasionally  into 
violence  of  speech  and  gesture  and  painfully 
abrupt  transitions  of  mood.  During  the  opening 
address  of  the  King,  for  instance,  when  plunged 

393 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

in  the  deepest  and  saddest  abstraction,  he  sud- 
denly sprang  to  his  feet,  alert,  irate,  and  men- 
acing, more  like  Hotspur  than  Hamlet.  Fre- 
quently during  the  performance  there  were  simi- 
lar injudicious — I  had  almost  written  unjustifiable 
— attempts  to  create  effects  by  means  of  startling 
contrasts.  There  were  flagrant  errors  of  this 
sort — errors  of  divination  rather  than  of  inex- 
perience— in  the  renunciation  scene  with  Ophelia 
when  he  oscillated  continuously  between  melo- 
dramatic suspicion  and  consuming  passion.  In 
meeting  with  the  Ghost  he  solved  the  difficulties 
of  the  wild  and  whirling  words  by  rattling  them 
off  like  so  much  gibberish. 

In  the  play  scene  his  outbreak  was  mere 
brutum  fulmen.  His  undiversified  elocution 
robbed  the  soliloquies  of  all  their  interest  and 
much  of  their  sense.  But  he  put  welcome  fire 
into  the  "Oh,  what  a  rogue  and  peasant  slave," 
etc. — possibly  taking  a  hint  from  Fechter,  and 
played  the  closing  scenes  with  fine  spirit  and 
vigor.  But  these,  of  course,  almost  act  them- 
selves. He  was  at  his  best,  as  might  have  been 
expected,  in  the  passages  with  Bosencrantz  and 
Guildenstern,  the  actors,  and  the  grave-diggers, 
where  his  experience  as  a  comedian  stood  him  in 
good  stead.  The  impersonation  was  a  notable 
achievement,  considering  all  the  attendant  cir- 

394 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

cumstances,  but  it  only  touched  the  surface  of 
the  real  Hamlet.  It  did,  however,  point  to  Mr. 
Sothern  as  the  chief  existent  hope  of  the  poetic 
drama  and  foreshadowed  his  future  alliance  with 
Julia  Marlowe. 

It  was  in  1887  that  Julia  Marlowe,  as  a  novice, 
made  her  first  official  appearance  in  this  city  as 
Juliet,  and  exhibited  a  dramatic  intelligence  that 
excited  instant  interest  in  her  future.  She  raised 
expectations,  indeed — in  the  mind  of  the  present 
writer,  at  all  events — which  have  never  been 
completely  fulfilled.  It  was  a  crude  perform- 
ance, naturally,  but  it  was  irradiated  by  unmis- 
takable flashes  of  the  true  fire.  She  was  a  sylph- 
like  creature,  with  wonderful  dark  eyes,  a  rich 
liquid  voice,  and  a  face  charming  in  repose  and 
fascinatingly  eloquent  in  animation.  To  the  eye 
she  was,  in  many  respects,  an  ideal  Juliet. 

Nine  years  later,  when  she  had  acquired  much 
stage  experience,  she  reappeared  in  the  charac- 
ter, and  it  is  of  this  performance,  which  did  not 
differ  materially  from  those  of  later  years,  that 
I  now  speak.  It  had  gained  much  in  artistic 
finish,  smoothness,  clearness,  and  consistency,  but 
it  had  fewer  of  those  electric  flashes  of  natural 
intuition  by  which  it  had  been  illuminated  for- 
merly. More  artistic  in  mechanical  execution,  it 
was  less  potent  in  virginal  innocence  and  youth- 

395 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

ful  fire.  Conscious  design  had  brought  with  it 
an  appearance  of  affectation,  which  in  Juliet,  as 
one  dreams  of  her,  is  inconceivable.  There  was 
more  than  a  trace  of  coquetry  in  the  responsive 
glances  with  which  she  ogled — the  word  is  delib- 
erately chosen — Borneo  at  her  first  encounter 
with  him  at  the  ball.  Excellent  as  was  her  bal- 
cony scene  in  many  ways — charming,  tender, 
bashful,  ardent — it  was  marred  by  too  frequent 
betrayals  of  artful  premeditation.  In  the  coaxing 
scene  with  the  Nurse  she  was  more  wholly  nat- 
ural and,  therefore,  much  more  affecting  and 
convincing,  and  in  the  chamber  scene  the  glowing 
tenderness  and  devotion  in  the  parting  from  her 
lover  and  husband  were  true  and  very  touching. 
Her  rebuke  to  the  Nurse,  "Thou  hast  comforted 
me  marvelous  much,"  was  admirably  delivered, 
with  full  comprehension  of  its  ironic  significance, 
and  her  hurried  exit  was  a  notable  stroke.  In 
the  potion  scene  she  rose,  in  her  best  moments, 
to  tragic  heights  of  emotional  expression,  but 
here  again  occurred  unwelcome  evidences  of  cal- 
culation in  the  prolongation  of  studied  pauses 
and  picturesque  attitudes.  She  was  not  swept 
onward  in  the  rush  of  horror-stricken  imagina- 
tion, as  were  Adelaide  Neilson,  Modjeska,  and 
Stella  Colas.  Nevertheless,  the  performance,  as 
a  whole,  was  attractive,  sympathetic,  intelligent, 

396 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

and  capable,  and  established  her  claim  to  a  high 
place  among  the  leading  Juliets  of  her  time. 

The  second  Shakespearean  character  she  es- 
sayed, in  1887,  was  that  of  Viola  in  "  Twelfth 
Night,"  which,  in  after  years,  was  to  become 
one  of  her  most  popular  impersonations.  Her 
beauty  and  youth  were  important  factors  in  this 
performance.  She  succeeded  best  in  her  scenes 
with  Orsino,  in  which  she  sounded  a  pathetic  note 
with  richness  and  certainty.  Elsewhere,  and 
even  in  her  maturity,  she  never  fully  grasped 
the  more  delicate  and  poetic  elements  of  the 
character.  She  played  it  too  much  in  the  mood 
of  Eosalind.  Her  vivacity  and  humor  carried 
her  successfully  through  the  comic  adventures, 
but  the  essential  feminine  charm  of  it  frequently 
eluded  her.  The  part  of  Parthenia  in  "Ingo- 
mar"  fell  very  easily  within  the  scope  of  her 
abilities.  She  had  not  all  of  the  unusual  physi- 
cal qualifications  of  Mary  Anderson,  but  was 
almost  as  liberally  endowed  with  personal  charm 
and  was  fully  as  well  provided  with  artistic  re- 
sources. The  dash  of  natural  feminine  coquetry, 
which  jarred  in  Juliet,  was  appropriate  enough 
in  the  early  scenes  with  the  Barbarian,  which  she 
played  capitally. 

Her  earlier  interpretations  of  Rosalind  were 
curiously  destitute  of  promise.  This  character, 

397 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

like  Hamlet,  is  one  in  which  few  players  have 
ever  failed  absolutely,  and  when  she  first  repre- 
sented it  here  in  1890  she  pleased  by  the  fresh- 
ness and  girlishness  which  she  gave  to  it.  But 
her  performance  had  no  glamor  of  romance,  poet- 
ry, or  distinction.  About  Rosalind  herself  hangs 
no  particular  mystery.  She  is  an  entirely  and  de- 
lightfully human  figure,  but  she  moves  in  a 
romantic  and  poetic  atmosphere,  which  must  be 
preserved  if  any  sort  of  illusion  is  to  be  created 
for  a  highly  improbable  story.  Rosalind  was 
never  one  of  Miss  Marlowe's  happiest  achieve- 
ments, but  it  grew  in  grace  and  authority  as  the 
years  rolled  by.  It  never  attained  the  daintiness, 
refinement,  or  imaginative  humor  of  Modjeska's 
or  the  vitality  and  sincerity  of  Henrietta  Cros- 
man's,  but  in  the  end  it  was  an  interesting  and 
capable,  if  never  inspired,  portrayal.  Julia  in 
"The  Hunchback" — which  all  novices  of  twenty- 
five  years  ago  felt  themselves  obliged  to  play — 
was  another  character  in  which,  at  first,  she 
was  heavily  overweighted,  but  some  of  her  emo- 
tional work  in  it,  if  crude,  was  decidedly  impres- 
sive. In  1896,  with  her  first  husband,  Robert 
Taber,  she  appeared  in  "She  Stoops  to  Con- 
quer," playing  Miss  Hardcastle  with  archness 
and  spirit  and  plentiful  technical  efficiency.  She 
was  a  bewitching  figure,  but  her  acting  still  dis- 

398 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

played  self -consciousness,  and  was  a  performance 
rather  than  an  embodiment. 

Next  she  engaged  in  a  peculiarly  audacious 
and  profitless  experiment  in  undertaking  the  part 
of  the  Prince  of  Wales  in  "King  Henry  IV," 
which  is  masculine  in  its  every  fiber.  Of  course, 
she  could  not  look,  speak,  or  act  it.  Presumably, 
she  wished  to  give  her  husband,  Eobert  Taber, 
a  chance  to  play  Hotspur,  which  he  did  fairly 
well,  but  not  brilliantly.  The  one  redeeming 
feature  of  this  revival  was  the  Falstaff  of  Wil- 
liam F.  Owen,  which,  though  an  unfinished  sketch, 
was  really  racy,  unctuous,  and  vital,  with  the  right 
liquorish  flavor,  and  something  of  the  rumbling 
resonance  of  speech  and  laughter  naturally  asso- 
cited  with  the  girth  of  this  unwieldy  and  jovial 
old  profligate.  It  put  all  recent  impersonations 
of  the  character  completely  in  the  shade,  and 
undoubtedly  was  the  best  in  this  part  of  the 
world  since  Hackett's.  Theatrical  fate  has  sel- 
dom been  more  ironical  than  in  condemning  a 
creation  of  this  value  to  pass  almost  unnoticed 
in  a  representation  otherwise  incapable  and 
irreverent. 

In  "Bonnie  Prince  Charlie,"  an  adaptation 
of  "Les  Jacobites"  of  Francois  Coppee,  Miss 
Marlowe  appeared  as  a  patriotic  blind  beggar 
girl  passionately  devoted  to  the  Young  Pretender 

399 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

and  his  cause.  For  him  she  vainly  sacrificed 
home,  faith,  character,  love,  and  life.  The  piece 
was  romantic  melodrama  of  a  superior  order,  but 
was  overladen  by  dialogue  (which  only  dimly  re- 
flected the  original  French)  and  did  not  long 
survive.  Miss  Marlowe's  performance  was  a 
good  one  of  its  kind,  not  deficient  either  in  power 
or  pathos,  but  was  not  extraordinary  in  any 
way,  and  added  nothing  to  her  reputation.  She 
won  much  more  substantial  success  in  the  "Bar- 
bara Frietchie"  of  Cylde  Fitch,  which  was  an 
extravagant  melodramatic  invention  remotely 
suggested  by  Whittier's  poem. 

With  the  original  Barbara  the  new  heroine  had 
nothing  whatever  to  do,  either  in  age  or  experi- 
ence. She  was  a  lovely  young  woman,  involved 
in  most  of  the  tribulations  incidental  to  civil  war, 
and  central  in  a  succession  of  those  purely  artifi- 
cial, but  often  exceedingly  effective,  theatrical 
situations  which  Mr.  Fitch  devised  with  such  pro- 
lificingenuity.  Nothing  in  the  character  presented 
insuperable  difficulties  to  an  actress  of  Miss  Mar- 
lowe's experience,  and  she  played  it  excellently. 
As  an  impulsive,  passionate,  coquettish,  tender, 
high-spirited  Southern  girl,  she  was  altogether 
fascinating  in  her  earlier  love  scenes  and  in  the 
melodramatic  incidents  she  acted  with  pictur- 
esque vigor  and  a  variety  of  emotional  power 
which  won  for  her  a  decisive  popular  success. 

400 


E.  H.  SOTHERN  AND  JULIA  MARLOWE 

in  "Romeo  and  Juliet" 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

By  this  time  she  had  long  been  recognized  as 
a  fixed  star  of  considerable  magnitude  in  a  the- 
atrical firmament  in  which  planets  were  very 
few  and  far  between.  But  she  assumed  a  new 
prominence  when  she  allied  herself,  matrimoni- 
ally and  professionally,  with  E.  H.  Sothern.  This 
partnership,  not  so  much  on  account  of  what  it 
accomplished  as  on  account  of  what  it  proved, 
was  one  of  the  most  significant  occurrences  in 
recent  theatrical  history.  It  put  an  end  to  the 
pretense  that  there  was  no  longer  any  popular 
demand  for  the  classic  drama,  and  that  Shake- 
speare spelt  ruin  except  when  associated  with 
stars  of  exceptional  brilliancy,  such  as  Edwin 
Booth,  Henry  Irving,  or  Ellen  Terry.  This  has 
been  the  parrot  cry  of  commercial  managers  from 
time  immemorial.  It  was  raised  when  the  Kem- 
bles  passed  away,  when  Macready,  Charles  Kean, 
Samuel  Phelps,  Edwin  Booth,  and  Henry  Irving 
died.  Never  did  it  have  the  slightest  foundation 
in  fact.  Shakespeare  has  made  money  for  all 
sorts  of  actors  and  managers,  at  all  sorts  of 
times  and  in  all  sorts  of  conditions.  But  the 
public,  no  more  than  connoisseurs,  will  pay 
money  to  see  him  butchered.  The  most  ardent 
admirers  of  Julia  Marlowe  and  E.  H.  Sothern 
will  scarcely  claim  for  them  a  place  among  the 
most  famous  of  Shakespearean  actors.  They 

401 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

have  had  the  field  to  themselves,  have  shone  more 
brightly  in  the  absence  of  greater  lights,  but 
their  individual  achievements  have  been  wor- 
thy, rather  than  exceptional.  No  production  of 
theirs  has  been  comparable  in  respect  of  all- 
around  artistic  excellence  with  those  of  Henry 
Irving.  They  have  appeared  occasionally  in 
parts  which  manifestly,  tested  by  any  exacting 
standard,  were  beyond  their  capabilities.  But 
they  have  done  nothing  ill.  All  their  representa- 
tions have  borne  the  marks  of  liberal,  conscien- 
tious, and  capable  management,  with  the  result 
that  they  have  played  for  many  seasons,  with 
great  profit  and  honor,  to  crowded  houses.  Now 
they  have  retired  honorably  to  enjoy  the  fruits 
of  their  labors. 

When  the  New  Theater  was  opened,  they  were 
selected  as  the  chief  representatives  of  the  higher 
drama  to  play  in  "Antony  and  Cleopatra."  That 
was  not  a  fortunate  choice,  but  it  afforded  strik- 
ing testimony  to  the  assured  position  they  had 
won.  The  day  has  not  yet  come  for  any  delib- 
erate critical  estimate  of  their  work  in  collabo- 
ration. It  began  appropriately  with  "Borneo 
and  Juliet, '  '  in  which  Miss  Marlowe  demonstrated 
that  she  had  not  purchased  experience  at  the  cost 
of  youth  or  beauty.  Since  then  they  have  ven- 
tured courageously  upon  some  of  the  most  diffi- 

402 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

cult  tasks  in  the  whole  Shakespearean  repertory. 
To  say  that  they  have  always  satisfied  the  high- 
est ideals  would  be  foolish  flattery,  but  they  have 
provided  substantial  pleasure  to  thousands  of 
Shakespeare  lovers,  maintained  the  dignity  of 
the  stage,  and  contributed  object-lessons  of  in- 
calculable value  to  the  general  public. 


403 


XXVI 

ROBERT  MANTELL,  MRS.  FISKE,  ROSE 
COGHLAN,  AND  OTHERS 

THE  names  of  Sothern  and  Marlowe  naturally 
suggest  that  of  Eobert  Mantell,  a  fellow  laborer 
in  the  field  of  Shakespearean  drama.  For  more 
than  thirty  years  he  has  occupied  a  prominent 
position  upon  the  American  stage,  but  nearly  the 
whole  of  his  professional  prime  was  passed  in 
the  West,  and  except  to  the  older  generation  he 
was  comparatively  unknown  in  New  York  until 
long  after  the  period  to  which  these  reminis- 
cences are  confined.  His  Shakespearean  perform- 
ances here  have  been  the  subject  of  such  recent 
and  plentiful  comment  that  any  particular  re- 
view of  him  at  this  time  would  be  reiterative,  su- 
perfluous, and  tiresome.  Wishing  to  be  as 
honest  as  I  can,  I  must  confess  that  they  have 
been  to  me,  personally,  a  source  of  great  disap- 
pointment, chiefly  because  of  unfulfilled  expecta- 
tion, but  he  has  pleased  many  thousands,  and 
has  carried  the  banner  of  Shakespeare  far  and 
wide,  to  his  own  great  credit  and  reward.  There 
was  a  time  when  I  hoped  and  thought  that  he 

404 


ROBERT  MANTELL 
as  "King  John" 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

might  prove  the  great  tragic  actor  of  his  genera- 
tion. He  came  to  this  country  in  the  early 
eighties  from  England,  where  he  already  en- 
joyed a  considerable  provincial  reputation — and 
there  were  good  judges  in  the  English  provinces 
in  those  days — on  account  of  his  youthful  achieve- 
ments in  romantic  and  tragic  drama.  Few  men 
had  been  more  liberally  equipped  by  nature  for 
characters  of  the  heroic  type.  His  form  was  tall, 
well  knit,  and  graceful,  his  face  expressive  and 
attractive,  his  carriage  and  manner  refined,  and 
his  voice  singularly  flexible,  powerful,  and  melo- 
dious. 

He  made  his  first  appearance  here  in  support 
of  Fanny  Davenport,  then  in  her  ripest  beauty, 
who  was  making  the  first  start  in  her  stellar 
career  as  the  heroine  in  Sardou's  "Fedora."  The 
occasion  was  a  notable  one.  A  representative 
New  York  audience,  including  a  host  of  Miss 
Davenport's  friends  and  admirers,  filled  every 
seat  in  the  house,  and  enthusiasm  over  the  fair 
heroine  was  rampant.  Every  possible  prepara- 
tion had  been  made  to  give  her  a  good  "send- 
off."  A  good,  though  never  a  great,  actress,  she 
played  effectively,  winning  plentiful  and  hearty 
applause,  and  all  went  well  until  the  crucial 
scene  of  the  discovery,  between  Fedora  and  Loris, 
in  which  the  former  was  to  win  her  crowning 

405 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

triumph.  Up  to  this  point  Mr.  Mantell  had  won 
the  kindly  regard  of  the  house  by  his  refined, 
intelligent,  and  natural  acting,  but  had  neces- 
sarily remained  somewhat  in  the  background. 
But  at  this  crisis,  after  an  impressive  exhibition 
of  rising  wrath  held  in  curb,  he  delivered  him- 
self of  an  outburst  of  scorn  and  passion  that 
galvanized  the  house,  and  le'ft  Fedora  over- 
whelmed and  almost  forgotten.  At  that  moment 
he  might  have  prevailed  over  Bernhardt  herself. 
It  was  a  dazzling  bit  of  work,  all  the  more 
effective  because  so  utterly  unlooked  for.  And 
that  it  was  no  mere  accident,  but  the  legitimate 
result  of  trained  skill  directed  by  emotional  im- 
pulse, was  clearly  proved  by  his  later  success 
in  the  "Dakolar,"  an  adaptation  from  "Le 
Maitre  des  Forges,"  by  Steele  Mackaye.  This 
was  in  some  respects,  from  the  purely  theatrical 
point  of  view,  an  improvement  upon  the  original. 
That  is  to  say,  it  increased  and  intensified  the- 
atrical situations.  In  these  Mr.  Mantell  proved 
himself  master  of  strength  both  in  repose  and 
action.  Some  of  his  paroxysms  of  passion  were 
thrilling  in  their  truth  and  vigor,  while  in  quieter 
and  pathetic  passages  he  showed  himself  capable 
of  both  dignity  and  tenderness.  Moreover,  he  had 
that  freedom  and  picturesqueness  of  gesture 
which  are  such  important  elements  in  romantic 

406 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

acting.  These  qualities,  with  the  intelligence 
he  displayed  in  the  use  of  them,  fully  justified 
the  belief  that  he  would  make  his  mark  in  poetic 
tragedy,  which  is  but  a  superior  development  of 
romantic  melodrama.  Beyond  question,  he  had 
in  him  the  makings  of  a  really  great  actor,  and 
it  is  a  pity  that  circumstances,  in  the  formative 
period  of  his  career,  kept  him  for  so  many  years 
from  the  metropolitan  stage.  In  that  long  exile 
he  acquired  great  experience  and  an  imposing 
repertory,  but  grew  little  in  artistic  stature.  His 
execution  gained  in  precision  and  authority,  but 
became  mannered.  His  acting  lost  the  old  glow 
of  inspiration.  He  learned  to  rely  more  and 
more  upon  exaggerated  points — always  sure  of  a 
round  of  applause  from  the  gallery — and  he 
strained  his  voice  until  it  lost  much  of  its  flexi- 
bility and  mellowness. 

When  he  first  returned  to  the  East  he  still  re- 
tained many  of  his  distinctive  characteristics, 
and  when  at  his  best  revealed  himself  as  an 
uncommonly  fine  actor.  In  the  robuster  tragic 
parts — such  as  Lear,  Macbeth,  or  Othello — he 
frequently  created  effects  far  beyond  the  reach 
of  Mr.  Sothern  or  any  other  living  American 
actor,  but  these  were  too  often  the  result  of 
physical  prowess  rather  than  imaginative  percep- 
tion, and  his  impersonations  were  apt  to  be  of 

407 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

very  uneven  merit.  Eomeo,  a  character  which 
suited  him  admirably,  he  played  with  success 
until  far  advanced  in  middle  life.  He  fully  com- 
prehended the  romance,  ardor,  and  passion  of  it. 
His  Hamlet,  striking  in  spots,  was,  on  the  whole, 
conventional  and  uninspired.  It  was  intelligent, 
but  not  intellectual  or  imaginative.  King  John, 
in  which  Macready,  Charles  Kean,  and  Phelps 
were  all  famous,  was  a  sealed  book  to  him.  But 
he  gave  a  vigorous  melodramatic  interpretation 
of  Richard  III.  He  won  public  acceptance  also 
as  Richelieu  and  Louis  XI.  It  is  in  romantic 
action  and  the  portrayal  of  the  simple,  direct 
emotions  that  his  faculties  have  been  displayed 
to  best  advantage,  but  there  is  no  character  of 
really  first-rate  magnitude  with  which  his  name 
is  intimately  associated,  and  although  his  profes- 
sional career  has  been  honorable  and  successful 
and,  perhaps  in  a  barren  period,  distinguished, 
it  can  scarcely  be  defined  as  illustrious. 

I  can  not  pretend  to  mention  even  the  names 
of  all  the  players  more  or  less  prominent  during 
the  last  fifteen  years  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
Some  of  them  won  popularity  by  their  suitability 
to  one  type  of  character  to  which  they  steadily 
adhered — not  being  actors  at  all  in  the  full  sense 
of  that  abused  word.  Others  profited  by  a  pleas- 
ing personality,  many  more  by  the  ingenious  and 

408 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

unscrupulous  art  of  advertisement.  These  all 
belonged  to  the  order  of  the  third  rate.  It  is 
only  necessary  now  to  speak  particularly  of  a 
few  of  the  best-known  or  best-qualified  perform- 
ers. At  the  head  of  this  latter  division  I  should 
unhesitatingly  place  Eose  Coghlan,  who  won  her 
earliest  laurels  as  leading  lady  at  Wallack's. 
She  is  one  of  the  many  good  actresses  graduated 
in  the  school  of  burlesque.  Whether  she  could 
have  succeeded  in  high  tragedy  is  uncertain,  but 
in  the  broad  fields  of  comedy  and  melodrama  she 
long  ago  proved  herself  thoroughly  expert  and 
capable.  Her  Lady  Teazle  was  one  of  the  best 
witnessed  by  this  generation,  and  her  Eosalind, 
if  not  ideal,  was  in  many  respects  a  delightful 
impersonation. 

In  a  brilliant  performance  of  "London  Assur- 
ance'* her  Lady  Gay  Spanker  was  one  of  the 
most  conspicuous  ornaments.  The  exuberant 
spirit  of  it  was  altogether  vital,  alluring  and 
spontaneous.  In  the  "  Forge t-Me-Not"  of  Meri- 
vale  she  enacted  the  adventuress,  not,  indeed, 
with  the  superfine  polish  and  keen  intellectual 
edge  of  Genevieve  Ward,  but  with  splendid  color 
and  vigor.  The  cynical  audacity  and  readiness 
of  the  woman  were  most  boldly  and  skilfully  de- 
noted. As  Clara  Douglas  in  Bulwer  Lytton's 
"Money"  she  was  as  languishing  and  sentimen- 

409 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

tally  tender  as  could  be  wished.  In  the  ultra- 
melodramatic  "Jocelyn,"  specially  devised  to 
exhibit  the  wide  range  of  her  talents,  she  played 
with  a  varied  power  of  passion  and  pathos  which 
imparted  momentary  substance  to  windy  rub- 
bish. It  was  often  her  lot  to  be  the  sole  attrac- 
tion of  a  worthless  play,  but  she  rarely  failed 
to  make  the  best  use  of  any  opportunity  offered 
her. 

She  gave  a  particularly  fine  performance  of 
Mrs.  Arbuthnot,  for  instance,  in  the  clever,  flashy, 
tricky  "A  Woman  of  No  Importance"  of  Oscar 
Wilde.  When  the  vilely  mismanaged  production 
of  the  * '  Ulysses ' '  of  Stephen  Phillips  was  brought 
to  the  verge  of  instant  collapse  on  the  first  night 
by  the  utter  incapacity  of  nearly  all  concerned  in 
it,  she  restored  a  mocking  and  impatient  audience 
to  interest  and  sobriety  by  the  dignified  poise, 
eloquence,  and  pathos  of  her  Penelope.  In  the 
estimation  of  the  public — the  soundest  of  critics 
in  the  long  run — she  has  always  stood  high. 
Whether  or  not  she  has  herself  been  in  any  way 
responsible  for  her  failure  to  hold  constantly 
the  place  upon  the  metropolitan  stage  to  which 
she  is  entitled  by  her  ability  and  performance  it 
is  not  my  province  to  know  or  inquire,  but  she 
is  a  sterling  actress. 

I  approach  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Fiske  with  diffi- 

410 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

dence,  not  that  I  am  in  any  way  in  doubt  about 
it,  but  because  I  find  myself  pretty  nearly  in  the 
position  of  the  one  obstinate  juror.  He  may 
be  often,  perhaps  generally  is,  wrong,  but  if  he 
is  convinced,  he  can  not  change  his  verdict.  So 
I  shall  register  mine  for  what  it  is  worth.  The 
very  essence  of  acting,  to  my  mind,  lies  in  the 
capacity  of  assumption  and  impersonation  of  a 
conceived  character  and  personality  different 
from  that  of  the  player.  Perfect  metamorpho- 
sis, in  body  and  spirit,  is  an  idealism  very  rarely, 
if  ever,  possible  of  achievement,  but  some  actors 
have  come  very  close  to  it.  The  Salvini  of  Othello 
was  unrecognizable  in  the  Salvini  of  Conrad. 
Phelps  was  one  man  as  Henry  IV,  another  as 
Shallow,  a  third  as  Baillie  Nicholl  Jarvie.  W.  J. 
Florence  could  and  did  disguise  himself  com- 
pletely. Such  instances  might  be  multiplied,  but 
they  are  exceptional.  To  demand  or  expect  such 
transformations  habitually  would  be  ridiculous 
and  idiotic.  But  in  all  serious  acting,  in  every  case, 
that  is,  where  the  playwright  has  elaborated  a 
character  markedly  individual  and  peculiar  in 
habit,  thought,  and  conduct,  the  player,  if  he 
would  be  considered  an  actor,  must  make  some 
attempt  to  embody  and  signify,  so  far  as  in  him 
lies,  the  outward  and  inward  attributes  of  that 
character.  It  often  happens  that  the  personality 

411 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

of  an  actor  coincides  very  closely  and  neatly  with 
that  of  the  fictitious  character,  and  the  result  is 
an  effective  and  satisfactory  impersonation. 

Hundreds  of  our  players,  and  not  a  few  of  our 
stars,  never  dream  of  acting  anybody  but  them- 
selves. The  consequence  is  that  the  spectators  get 
no  definite  idea  of  Macbeth  or  Benedick,  but  only 
learn  how  Mr.  Smith  or  Mr.  Jones  thinks  he 
would  comport  himself  in  similar  circumstances. 
In  other  words,  the  player  who  is  content  to 
express  every  character,  no  matter  how  diverse, 
in  terms  of  his  own  individual  habits,  ideas,  and 
impulses,  trusting  simply  to  external  disguise  for 
identification,  is  not  a  genuine  impersonator  or 
actor  at  all,  although  he  may  be  himself  an  exceed- 
ingly interesting  personality  and  uncommonly 
expert  in  self-illustration.  In  the  many  years 
that  I  have  been  writing  about  the  theater  this 
is  one  of  the  tests  by  which  I  have  always  abided 
in  trying  to  form  a  just  estimate  of  relative  per- 
formances. A  little  reflection  will  show  that  the 
more  marked  are  the  traits  in  the  individual  per- 
sonality of  the  player,  the  more  incumbent  it  is 
upon  him  to  suppress  them  in  characters  to  which 
they  are  not  appropriate,  especially  when  those 
characters  have  different  and  equally  strongly 
marked  traits  of  their  own. 

One  of  the  reasons  why  I  have  never  been  able 

412 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

to  join  in  the  unqualified  praise  so  liberally  be- 
stowed upon  the  performances  of  Mrs.  Fiske  is 
that  upon  the  application  of  this  test  she  has  failed 
to  reveal  any  distinct  evidences  of  genuine  im- 
personation. In  all  her  "creations"  she  has  pre- 
sented her  own  identity  without  any  substantial 
modification  of  speech,  gesture,  look,  or  manner. 
Situations,  circumstances,  differed,  not  the  per- 
sonality. It  may  be  granted  unreservedly  that 
that  personality  was  uncommon,  piquant,  provo- 
cative, and  interesting  and  exceedingly  effective 
in  parts  with  which  it  happened  to  be  in  accord- 
ance. Her  bright,  inquisitive,  slightly  aggressive, 
manner,  her  decisive  movements  and  snappy  ut- 
terances were  admirably  adapted  to  the  light 
comedies — such  as  " Featherbrain" — in  which 
she  first  won  public  favor.  In  that  line  her  early 
work  was  full  of  promise.  But  her  ambition, 
which  was  active  and  dauntless,  inclined  her  to 
the  more  serious  and  emotional  dramas,  for 
which  she  had  not  the  necessary  histronic  or  ar- 
tistic qualifications.  Her  elocution  was  faulty  and 
did  not  lend  itself  readily  to  emotional  expres- 
sion. She  could  be  imperious,  sarcastic,  fiery, 
and  angry,  but  the  deeper  notes  of  passion  she 
could  not  sound,  and  her  pathos  was  hard  and 
hollow,  without  the  true  ring. 

She  made  her  first  essay  in  social  melodrama 

413 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

in  the  "In  Spite  of  All"  of  Steele  Mackaye  in 
1887,  but  then  she  was  clearly  out  of  her  ele- 
ment. In  1896,  when  she  appeared  in  "Cesar- 
ine,"  a  version  of  "La  Femme  de  Claude"  of 
the  younger  Dumas,  she  had  advanced  greatly  in 
stage  knowledge  and  confidence,  but  early  habits 
were  hardening  already  into  confirmed  manner- 
isms. Some  phases  of  Cesarine's  character — 
those  which  lay  on  the  surface — the  deceitfulness, 
callousness,  and  vindictiveness — to  be  reproduced 
later  in  Becky  Sharp — came  easily  within  her 
compass,  but  the  plausibility,  the  passion,  and  the 
fascination  were  beyond  her  grasp.  In  "Tess  of 
the  D'Urbervilles,"  in  which  she  had  the  invalu- 
able support  of  that  fine  actor  Charles  Coghlan, 
she  found  a  part  in  which  she  was  very  success- 
ful. She  had  not  the  physical  qualifications,  nor 
the  proper  emotional  power,  but  she  played  it 
with  comprehensive  intelligence. 

At  such  moments  as  those  of  her  discovery  of 
her  husband's  ignorance  of  her  fall,  and  of  the 
return  of  the  supposedly  dead  Angel  Clare,  her 
simulation  of  dumb  fear,  amazement,  and  per- 
plexity was  excellent.  Her  terror  after  the  mur- 
der was  overwrought.  She  was  not  at  all  the  Tess 
of  Hardy,  but  she  gave  an  interesting  perform- 
ance. In  Magda  her  limitations  were  sharply 
defined.  Apparently  wishing  to  emphasize  the 

414 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

self-confidence  and  intellectual  freedom  of  the 
famous  singer,  she  made  her  rude,  arrogant, 
cynical,  and  selfish.  Her  contemptuous  indiffer- 
ence to  her  old  father  and  stepmother  would 
have  been  impossible  to  an  accomplished,  enlight- 
ened, well-bred  woman.  Here  was  a  radical  mis- 
take in  interpretation.  Her  treatment  of  the 
parson  again  was  marked,  not  by  good-tempered 
but  somewhat  cynical  raillery,  but  by  a  down- 
right insolence  wholly  inconsistent  with  her  sub- 
sequent confession.  She  succeeded  better  in  her 
scene  with  the  hypocritical  Von  Keller,  her  spir- 
ited dismissal  of  him  from  the  house  giving  her 
an  opportunity  to  which  she  was  fully  equal;  but 
of  the  deeper  inner  workings  of  Magda's  soul — 
the  conflicts  in  the  heart  of  the  woman  and 
mother  —  she  gave  little  or  no  indication. 
Throughout,  the  manner  of  Magda  was  the  man- 
ner of  Tess,  of  Cesarine,  and  of  Minnie  Maddern 
Fiske. 

In  1889  Mrs.  Fiske,  in  pursuit  of  what  it  is 
still  the  fashion  to  call  the  new  realism — as  if 
realism  had  ever  been  absent  from  the  stage — 
appeared  in  a  one-act  tenement  study,  by  Horace 
B.  Fry,  called  "Little  Italy."  It  was  a  squalid 
but  not  unpowerful  sketch  of  conjugal  infidelity, 
in  which  an  Italian  wife,  about  to  flee  with  her 
lover,  is  accidentally  killed  in  an  attempt  to 

415 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

escape  from  her  enraged  husband,  who  has  sur- 
prised the  erring  pair.  It  was  charged  with  vio- 
lence and  tropical  passion.  The  performance 
was  made  worth  while  by  the  finely  vigorous  emo- 
tional acting  of  Frederic  de  Belleville  as  the  out- 
raged husband.  Mrs.  Fiske,  as  the  wife,  was 
admirably  "made  up"  and  mimicked  the  manner 
of  an  Italian  woman  of  the  poorer  classes  with 
much  cleverness.  She  gave  bold  and  veracious 
emphasis,  also,  to  the  amorous  abandonment  of 
the  character.  But  in  dealing  with  the  elemental 
emotions  of  the  more  melodramatic  episodes  a 
relapse  into  her  habitual  mannerisms  destroyed 
all  illusion.  What  was  needed  then  was  a  dash  of 
the  primeval  passion,  the  gripping  sincerity,  with 
which  Duse  glorified  Santuzza.  This  she  could 
not  supply.  The  announcement,  in  1899,  of  her 
approaching  appearance  as  Becky  Sharp  in  a 
new  stage  version  of  "Vanity  Fair"  excited 
much  public  interest.  There  was  general  expec- 
tation, in  which  the  present  writer  shared,  that 
the  part  was  one  into  which  she  would  fit  neatly. 
This  was  not  fulfilled  to  any  considerable  degree. 
Becky  was  Mrs.  Fiske  in  new  surroundings,  and 
she  was  little  more. 

The  play  itself,  inevitably,  was  a  travesty  of 
the  original,  as  almost  every  consideration  had 
been  sacrificed  to  the  prominence  of  the  inimi- 

416 


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SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

table  little  blackleg.  She,  at  least,  was  preserved 
in  something  like  her  true  form.  But  Mrs.  Fiske 
could  not  animate  it.  She  gave  it  briskness,  in- 
telligence, intrepidity,  volubility,  and  hardness — 
all  the  familiar  characteristics  of  her  habitual 
stage  methods — but  nothing,  or  barely  a  trace, 
of  the  supple  hypocrisy,  the  mock  sentiment,  the 
artful  coquetry,  the  ready  guile,  the  sparkle,  the 
fascination,  the  venom,  and  the  fury  which  are 
conspicuous  elements  in  the  composition  of  this 
complex  creature.  On  the  printed  page  Becky 
is  alive  and  real  in  every  fiber,  but  only  an  ac- 
tress of  consummate  versatility  and  endless 
resource  could  hope  to  vitalize  her  on  the  stage. 
The  histrionic  formulas  of  Mrs.  Fiske  could  ex- 
press but  few  of  her  many  facets. 

Mrs.  Fiske  next  assumed  the  part  of  Miranda 
in  "Miranda  of  the  Balcony/'  a  romantic  melo- 
drama of  the  most  extravagant  type.  Miranda 
was  a  paragon  of  beauty  and  all  earthly  accom- 
plishments, who,  being  happily  rid  of  an  unspeak- 
able husband — supposed  to  be  immured  in  a 
Moorish  dungeon — orders  the  man  whom  she 
madly  loves  to  rescue  him  at  the  peril  of  his 
own  life.  The  absurdity  and  inconsistencies  of 
the  plot  could  only  be  justified  by  the  theatrical 
value  of  the  emotions  which  they  occasioned. 
To  the  realization  of  these  torturing  and  diverse 

417 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

emotions,  Mrs.  Fiske's  stereotyped  methods  were 
wholly  inadequate,  but  in  the  less  exacting  scenes 
she  played  with  the  intelligent  intent,  if  restricted 
executive  ability,  manifest  in  all  her  work.  She 
acted  many  parts,  including  some  of  Ibsen's, 
before  and  after  those  mentioned  here,  but  pres- 
ent reference  to  them  is  unnecessary.  In  none 
of  them  did  she  exhibit  any  perceptible  develop- 
ment of  dramatic  power  or  versatility.  As  an  am- 
bitious and  clever  woman,  with  a  genuine  if  not 
always  well-directed  zeal  for  theatrical  progress, 
she  has  played  a  prominent  part  in  contemporary 
stage  history,  but  as  an  actress  her  achievements 
have  been  in  no  way  extraordinary. 

Not  all  the  best  actors  of  the  period  of  which 
I  have  been  speaking  were  among  the  performers 
of  the  greatest  notoriety,  or  those  whose  names 
were  most  frequently  displayed  in  the  public 
prints.  Even  such  a  fugitive  record  as  this  would 
be  incomplete  without  special  reference  to  some 
of  the  less  well-advertised  luminaries.  Charles 
Coghlan,  of  whose  achievements  in  Charles  Sur- 
face and  other  characters  some  mention  has  been 
made,  was  one  of  the  best  all-round  actors  of  his 
generation.  He  was  infinitely  superior  to  any 
of  the  leading  men  of  his  era  or  of  the  stars  of 
to-day.  If  he  had  not  absolute  genius  he  had  an 
intuition  which  was  closely  akin  to  it,  and  ample 

418 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

physical  resources  to  illustrate  Ms  ideals.  In 
poetic  romance,  melodrama,  and  artificial  and 
social  comedy  he  was  without  a  rival,  but  in 
tragedy  his  best  faculties  seemed  to  suffer  paraly- 
sis. Whether  the  deliberation  of  his  method — 
the  ever-present  but  artfully  concealed  design 
behind  his  action — or  a  dread  of  ranting  acted 
as  a  bar  to  inspiration,  certain  it  is  that  in  trag- 
edy he  could  never  let  himself  go.  In  his  early 
days,  when  he  was  with  the  Bancrofts,  he  essayed 
a  naturalistic  Shylock  with  disastrous  conse- 
quences, although  the  critics  recognized  the  origi- 
nality and  intellectuality  of  his  performance.  Act- 
ing here,  many  years  later,  with  Mrs.  Langtry,  he 
essayed  Macbeth,  and  again  failed  decisively. 
Yet  his  impersonation  was  full  of  brains  and 
imagination. 

His  " make-up"  showed  a  pale,  saturnine, 
eager  face,  framed  in  dark,  short,  wavy  hair,  a 
countenance  in  which  craft  was  mingled  with 
resolution.  He  made  it  plain  that  the  salutations 
of  the  weird  sisters  chimed  with  thoughts 
already  harbored  in  his  breast,  and  that  he  was 
more  affected  by  the  coincidence  than  by  the 
novelty  of  their  suggestion.  He  was  not,  how- 
ever, quite  ripe  for  murder,  although  the  medi- 
tation of  it  did  not  greatly  horrify  him.  The 
train  of  his  thought  prompting  the  soliloquy  after 

419 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

the  disappearance  of  the  witches  was  indicated 
with  surprising  skill  and  rare  significance  of 
facial  expression.  He  was  wholly  successful  in 
the  encounter  with  Duncan  and  the  ensuing  scene 
with  his  wife,  and  was  particularly  effective  in 
the  soliloquy,  "If  't  were  done,"  etc.  He  inter- 
preted the  dagger  scene  in  quite  the  right  spirit 
of  rapt  brooding,  and,  though  his  acting  after  the 
murder  was  tame,  he  delivered  the  "Who  can  be 
wise,  temperate,  and  amazed,"  etc.,  with  notable 
ability.  But  after  that — except  at  the  moment 
of  the  appearance  of  Banquo's  ghost — his  acting 
fell  off  terribly,  being  woefully  deficient  in  anima- 
tion, dramatic  power,  and  emotional  eloquence. 
In  such  plays  as  "The  Lady  of  Lyons,"  "A 
Wife's  Peril,"  and  "Lady  Clancarty"  he  played 
with  all  his  old  finish,  intelligence,  and  fire,  put- 
ting a  complete  extinguisher  upon  the  star,  Mrs. 
Langtry,  whom  he  was  supposed  to  be  support- 
ing. Afterward  he  won  great  success  in  "The 
Eoyal  Box,"  his  own  adaptation  of  "Kean,"  in 
which  he  made  an  astonishing  display  of  theatri- 
cal virtuosity. 

An  actor  of  kindred  but  not  quite  so  fine  cali- 
ber is  John  Mason.  His  best  work  has  been  done 
in  the  twentieth  century,  and  is  too  recent,  there- 
fore, to  be  discussed  here,  but  by  pretty  general 
consent  he  is  the  most  capable  all-round  actor  on 

420 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

the  American  boards  to-day.  It  is  to  be  noted 
that  he  got  his  early  training  in  one  of  the  last 
great  stock  companies,  that  of  the  Boston  Mu- 
seum. There  he  absorbed  the  experience  that 
was  to  qualify  him  for  every  department  of  the 
drama — tragedy,  artificial  and  modern  social 
comedy,  or  melodrama.  His  individual  work, 
even  in  inferior  plays,  is  always  notable  for  its 
superior  artistry.  Not  particularly  versatile,  in 
the  Protean  sense,  having  a  strong  and  self- 
assertive  personality,  he  has  a  plentiful  variety 
of  method,  while  his  executive  skill  is  manifested 
alike  in  boldness  of  outline  and  delicacy  of  detail. 
He  can  exhibit  robust  forcefulness  or  intellectual 
subtlety.  In  his  passionate  outbursts  there  is  the 
ring  of  true  sincerity,  and  he  is  admirable  in 
scenes  of  dignified  gravity  or  pathos.  In  humor 
he  is  not  exuberant,  but  his  appreciation  of  it  is 
keen,  and  his  interpretation  of  it,  especially  in 
the  vein  of  irony,  facile,  sure,  and  effective. 
With  actual  genius,  perhaps,  he  has  not  been 
endowed.  It  may  be  doubted  whether  he  could 
successfully  embody  the  greatest  tragic  creations 
of  poetic  fancy,  but  he  possesses  the  clear  intelli- 
gence and  the  finished  craftsmanship  which  are 
excellent  substitutes  for  inspiration  and  often 
much  more  trustworthy. 


421 


XXVII 

THE  KENDALS,  HENRIETTA  CROSMAN,  AND 
MARGARET  ANGLIN 

HENEIETTA  CBOSMAN  is  an  actress  who  is  enti- 
tled to  more  general  critical  and  popular  appre- 
ciation than  she  has  obtained.  She  is  an 
exceedingly  bright  and  capable  performer,  of 
considerable  range  and  much  technical  expert- 
ness.  Spontaneous  vivacity  is  one  of  the  po- 
tent charms  in  her  various  embodiments.  Her 
Nell  Gwynn,  in  one  of  the  wildest  plays  ever  con- 
cocted, will  long  be  remembered  for  its  variety, 
its  animation,  its  delightful  deviltry,  and  its  gen- 
eral fascination.  It  was  the  work  of  an  actress 
versed  in  every  trick  of  her  trade.  But  her 
greatest  artistic  achievement  was  her  Rosalind, 
which  I  have  always  considered  one  of  the  most 
satisfying  expositions  of  the  character  I  have 
seen.  It  had  not  the  dainty  refinement  and  poetic 
grace  of  Modjeska's,  but  it  was  wonderfully 
alive  and  illusive.  If  the  humor  of  it  was  a  trifle 
too  brusque  and  modern — just  a  little  out  of  har- 
mony with  the  romantic  atmosphere — it  was  at 
all  events  delightfully  real  and  human,  without 
the  least  tinge  of  coarseness.  And  the  imper- 

422 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

sonation  lacked  no  element  of  feminine  charm. 
If  not  superlatively  dainty  and  imaginative,  it 
was  graceful  and  eminently  attractive.  The  dash 
of  coquetry  in  the  scenes  with  Orlando  was  tem- 
pered by  very  pretty,  maidenly,  and  genuine  sen- 
timent. The  mannishness  was  always  girlish. 
The  few  emotional  notes  were  full  and  rich,  and 
the  text  was  admirably  spoken. 

It  has  been  suggested — not  quite  justly,  I  think 
— that  Miss  Crosman  owed  much  of  her  success 
to  the  experience  she  gained  when  she  acted 
Celia  to  the  Eosalind  of  Ada  Eehan.  If  so,  she 
greatly  bettered  her  instruction.  Her  delivery 
of  the  lines  was  infinitely  more  varied  in  intona- 
tion and  point,  and  all  her  "business"  much 
more  suggestive  of  spontaneous  impulse.  The 
illusion  she  created  was  manifested  in  the  in- 
stant and  hearty  response  of  her  audience.  It 
was  a  first-rate  performance. 

Margaret  Anglin  is  an  actress  of  whom  much 
may  yet  be  expected,  but  who  has  not  yet  fully 
redeemed  the  promise  of  her  novitiate.  She  has, 
beyond  question,  rare  gifts  of  emotional  expres- 
sion, a  special  aptitude  for  refined  comedy,  an 
attractive  presence,  and  the  charm  of  an  intelli- 
gent and  cultivated  woman.  She  has  done  some 
exceedingly  powerful  and  impressive  work,  but 
any  present  attempt  to  define  her  full  capacity 

423 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

would  be  premature.  Her  essays  in  poetic  com- 
edy and  romance  have  been  only  moderately  suc- 
cessful, and  it  is  doubtful  whether  she  could 
reach  the  heights  or  depths  of  tragedy.  The 
probability  is  that  her  true  sphere  lies  within 
the  extensive  domain  of  social  comedy.  The  posi- 
tion of  Maude  Adams  upon  the  stage  is  unique. 
Few  actresses  of  any  time  have  achieved  such 
wide  popularity  with  the  aid  of  so  limited  dra- 
matic capital.  For  years  she  has  enjoyed  pre- 
eminence among  contemporary  stars.  She  owes 
this  partly  to  the  arts  of  management,  partly 
to  the  skill  with  which  she  employs  the  resources 
at  her  command,  but  chiefly  to  the  ingratiating 
power  of  an  uncommon  and  fascinating  person- 
ality. She  made  her  first  great  hit  twenty  years 
ago  by  her  tactful,  humorous,  and  inoffensive  in- 
terpretation of  a  scene  of  semi-intoxication. 
Since  then  she  has  advanced  rapidly  in  stardom, 
but  very  little,  if  at  all,  in  dramatic  art,  except 
in  the  matter  of  technique.  It  is  impossible  to 
describe  in  words  the  spell  exerted  by  her  man- 
ner— half-pert,  half-timid,  and  wholly  sympa- 
thetic— or  her  piquant  features.  She  is  fragile, 
alert,  timorous,  audacious,  quaint,  quizzical,  ten- 
der, waspish.  She  has  an  impish  humor,  at  once 
sparkling  and  dry;  a  vein  of  pathos — somewhat 
shallow — temper,  and  girlish  freshness. 

424 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

There  is  an  air  about  her  of  sweetness  and 
innocence.  She  can  be  joyous,  arch,  petulant, 
provocative,  indignant,  but  not  passionate.  Over 
the  deeper  emotions  she  has  no  control,  and 
for  all  her  moods  she  has  but  one  mode  of  expres- 
sion. It  follows  that  her  personality  is  complex, 
but  not  versatile.  She  repeats  herself  charmingly, 
but  incessantly.  What  she  was  in  "The  Little 
Minister"  she  has  been  virtually  in  all  her  other 
parts.  She  expresses  all  personalities  in  terms 
of  her  own,  and  therefore  is  not  an  inter- 
preter, but,  even  in  parts  with  which  she  has 
no  affinity,  she  is  not  monotonous.  Cast  in  char- 
acters so  absolutely  without  her  range,  as  Juliet 
and  Chanticler,  she  excited  the  feeling  of  com- 
passion rather  than  ridicule.  Clearly  she  was 
doomed,  by  cold  speculation,  to  cope  with  the 
impossible.  It  was  in  the  whimsical,  delicate, 
suggestive  creations  of  Barrie  that  she  found  her 
golden  opportunity. 

Of  the  various  English  actors  who  visited  this 
country  as  stars  during  the  closing  years  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  Henry  Irving  was  by  far 
the  most  famous  and  significant.  Moreover,  he 
was  for  so  long  closely  identified  with  the  Ameri- 
can stage  that  he  might  almost  be  said  to  have 
belonged  to  it.  For  both  reasons,  considerable 
space  has  been  devoted  to  his  representations, 

425 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

most  of  which,  in  themselves,  had  intrinsic  liter- 
ary and  dramatic  importance.  It  will  not  be 
necessary  to  dwell  minutely  upon  any  of  the 
others.  The  first  of  them,  chronologically,  was 
Wilson  Barrett,  who  already  is  almost  forgotten. 
He  was  a  shrewd  and  clever  showman,  made  a 
great  splurge  and  much  money,  but  as  an  actor 
never  rose  above  the  second  class.  He  depended 
chiefly  upon  sensationalism,  spectacle,  sentimen- 
talism,  and  advertisement,  and  he  played  his 
cards  very  well.  In  "The  Silver  King"  he  had 
a  really  good  melodrama — highly  improbable,  of 
course,  but  well  knit,  ingenious,  continuously  ex- 
citing, and  full  of  adroitly  calculated  suspense — 
and  embodied  the  hero  with  no  little  picturesque- 
ness  and  force,  though  he  was  easily  excelled  in 
the  part  by  Osmund  Tearle,  a  player  of  no  special 
distinction.  "The  Sign  of  the  Cross,"  which 
made  his  fortune,  was  gorgeous  melodramatic 
spectacle,  seasoned  with  sentimental  claptrap 
devoid  of  all  sincerity. 

At  first,  after  contemptuous  press  notices,  it 
was  threatened  with  instant  collapse,  whereupon 
he  issued  invitations  and  free  passes  to  religious 
ministers  of  all  denominations,  many  of  whom 
rhapsodized,  in  their  pulpits,  over  the  moral 
lesson  which  they  discovered  in  it.  The  experi- 
ment proved  one  of  the  most  successful  advertis- 

426 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

ing  schemes  on  record — it  has  been  tried  more 
than  once  since  then  with  less  satisfactory  re- 
turns— and  the  piece  was  played  to  full  houses 
for  many  hundred  nights.  In  "Claudian,"  con- 
structed upon  similar  principles,  he  reaped  fur- 
ther profit  and  notoriety.  In  both  pieces  he  gave 
a  workmanlike,  agreeable,  but  entirely  undistin- 
guished performance.  In  "The  Manxman"  and 
"Ben-my-Chree"  he  did  nothing  more  remark- 
able. He  exhibited  repose,  passion,  and  pathos, 
but  not  in  any  degree  beyond  the  reach  of  any 
ordinarily  experienced  and  capable  actor.  It  was 
in  "Hamlet"  that  the  fullest  exposure  was  made 
of  his  dramatic  and  artistic  insignificance.  A 
more  utterly  prosaic,  laborious,  and  trivial  inter- 
pretation of  the  character  was  never  seen.  The 
lack  of  comprehension  displayed  in  it  was  almost 
shocking.  The  reflective,  melancholy  "sweet 
prince"  posed,  gesticulated,  and  ranted  like  the 
hero  of  a  modern  melodrama,  whose  one  anxiety 
was  to  keep  himself  in  the  middle  of  the  lime- 
light. It  is  pleasant  to  be  able  to  add  that  the 
presumptuous  travesty  found  no  general  accep- 
tance either  with  the  critics  or  the  public. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kendal,  who  made  their  first 
appearance  here  in  1889,  were  accomplished  ar- 
tists of  very  different  caliber.  Nearly  fifty  years 
have  slipped  away  since  I  first  saw  them  on  the 

427 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

stage.  She — Madge  Eobertson  then — was  a  fresh 
young  beauty,  scarcely  out  of  her  teens,  and  was 
playing  at  the  London  Haymarket  Theater,  as 
leading  lady  to  E.  A.  Sothern,  in  "The  Romance 
of  a  Poor  Young  Man."  Already  she  was  recog- 
nized as  one  of  the  rising  actresses  of  the  day.  In  a 
few  years  she  had  gained  the  position,  which  she 
thereafter  held,  of  leading  actress  on  the  English 
comedy  stage.  W.  S.  Kendal,  in  the  late  sixties, 
was  noted  for  nothing  but  his  good  looks.  In  face 
and  figure  he  was  ornamental,  and,  therefore, 
in  request  for  small  parts,  but  as  an  actor — it 
can  do  no  harm  to  say  so  now — he  was  a  terri- 
ble stick  For  years  after  his  marriage  he  was 
completely  overshadowed  by  his  brilliant  wife, 
but  improved  steadily  and  finally  shared  histri- 
onic honors  with  her  pretty  equally.  In  some 
respects,  I  think,  he  came  to  be  the  finer  artist 
of  the  two.  He  was  the  less  "mannered"  and 
self-conscious,  and,  in  the  end,  more  versatile, 
but  in  moments  of  violent  emotion  or  deep  pathos 
she  could  sound  a  deeper  and  fuller  note  than 
he.  In  scenes  of  comedy  they  were  exceedingly 
well  matched.  Both  had  finesse,  authority,  suffi- 
cient emotional  force  for  all  but  the  most  exact- 
ing situations,  and  a  most  agreeable  suavity  and 
ease  of  manner.  They  were,  in  brief,  sound 
actors  and  exceedingly  well-trained  artists,  inca- 

428 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

pable  of  the  grosser  expedients,  which  command 
the  applause  of  the  uncultivated  crowd,  but  are 
equally  offensive  to  nature  and  good  taste. 
Neither  of  them  ever  exhibited  any  proof  of  im- 
aginative genius.  They  did  not  excel  in  plays 
demanding  a  dash  of  romantic  coloring.  They 
belonged  to  the  realistic  school  in  experience  and 
capacity,  and  were  seen  at  their  best  in  plays 
which  may  be  grouped  under  the  head  of  supe- 
rior domestic  melodrama. 

They  were  not  particularly  fortunate  in  the 
selection  which  they  made  for  their  first  appear- 
ance in  this  city.  This  was  "A  Scrap  of  Paper," 
in  which  their  somewhat  prosaic  style  was 
brought  into  direct  contrast  with  one  much  more 
highly  colored  and  imaginative.  Virtually  the 
play  was  identical  with  that  given  at  Wallack 's, 
except  for  a  change  of  names  and  localities  from 
French  to  English.  It  may  be  admitted  readily 
that,  from  the  English  point  of  view,  the  Ken- 
dal representation  was  right  in  tone  and  spirit, 
but  it  was,  in  almost  every  way,  much  less  bril- 
liant and  effective.  Between  the  Prosper  Coura- 
mont  of  Lester  Wallack  and  the  Col.  Blake  of 
Mr.  Kendal  there  was  an  immense  gulf.  Mr. 
Wallack  sinned,  doubtless,  in  the  matter  of  self- 
consciousness,  from  which  Mr.  Kendal  was  en- 
tirely free,  but  in  his  superb  repose,  perfect  non- 
429 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

chalance,  and  artfully  measured  speech  and  ges- 
ture, which  gave  effect  to  every  shade  of  meaning 
in  the  dialogue  and  made  repartee  flash  like  light- 
ning, he  suggested  instantly  the  man  of  resolu- 
tion and  resource  masquerading  as  a  trifler,  and 
offered  a  guaranty  of  the  truth  of  his  tales  of 
travel  and  adventure. 

Mr.  Kendal  revealed  none  of  that  fine  and 
nimble  quality  which  distinguishes  light  and 
sparkling  from  the  tamer,  if  more  realistic,  com- 
edy. His  Col.  Blake  had  no  halo  of  romance, 
no  flavor  of  cosmopolitan  experience.  He  was 
not  even  military,  but  just  a  jovial,  sturdy,  every- 
day Englishman  of  the  clubs  and  moors.  But 
he  was  easy,  natural,  refined,  and  manly,  and 
conveyed  the  impression  of  a  rock-bottomed  sin- 
cerity. In  his  duel  of  wits  with  Susan  Hartley 
(Susanne)  his  delivery  of  the  dialogue  in  respect 
of  humor  and  emphasis,  could  not  be  compared 
with  that  of  Wallack,  and  in  receiving  the  chal- 
lenge from  the  jealous  boy  his  air  of  good- 
natured  ridicule,  if  it  had  the  merit  of  being 
natural  in  the  case  of  one  so  much  the  bigger  and 
stronger  of  the  two,  was  not  nearly  as  effective 
as  the  magnificent  condescension  of  the  American 
actor.  Nor  was  the  Susan  of  Mrs.  Kendal  as 
brilliant  as  that  of  Eose  Coghlan.  It  never 
quite  reached  the  height  of  hysterical  emotion, 

430 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

with  its  wonderful  blend  of  tears  and  laughter, 
attained  by  the  latter  in  her  scene  with  the  infuri- 
ated husband,  but  it  was  richer  in  purely  femi- 
nine attributes.  The  womanliness  of  it  was  very 
real.  And  the  archness  of  Mrs.  Kendal  was  as 
delightful  as  her  tenderness  was  unaffected.  In 
her  great  scene  with  the  jealous  husband,  if  she 
fell  just  short  of  Miss  Coghlan's  remarkable 
effort,  she  exhibited  genuine  feeling  and  notable 
artistic  probity. 

The  skill  with  which  she  denoted  her  sense  of 
the  humor  of  the  situation,  amid  the  whirl  of  con- 
flicting emotions,  was  of  a  very  high  order.  Her 
cajolery  was  a  striking  illustration  of  the  wiles  at 
a  pretty  woman's  command,  and  her  final  confes- 
sion of  love  was  uttered  with  a  fragmentary  and 
breathless  volubility  altogether  natural.  The  whole 
performance  was  eminently  capable.  E.  M.  Dodson 
furnished  a  remarkable  character  study  of  the  old 
naturalist — a  beautifully  finished  sketch.  Mr. 
Wenman  was  most  efficient  as  the  jealous  hus- 
band, and  Violet  Vanbrugh  played  the  suspected 
wife  very  prettily  and  well. 

In  "The  Iron  Master"  the  Kendals  came  into 
their  own.  This,  it  will  be  remembered,  was  an 
adaptation,  and  an  uncommonly  skilful  one,  by 
A.  "W.  Pinero,  from  "Le  Maitre  de  Forges"  of 
Georges  Ohnet,  which  in  some  respects  was  supe- 

431 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

rior  to  the  original.  The  story  is  too  well  known 
to  need  analysis.  Mrs.  Kendal  comprehended 
the  part  of  the  heroine  perfectly  and  played  it 
with  a  most  sympathetic  sincerity.  In  the  trying 
scene  in  which  her  worthless  lover's  perfidy  is 
explained  to  her  with  every  refinement  of  femi- 
nine malice,  she  portrayed  the  struggle  between 
wounded  love  and  natural  pride  with  rare  per- 
ception, truthfulness,  and  histrionic  skill.  There 
was  poignant  anguish  in  every  motion  of  her 
swaying  figure  and  in  the  lines  of  her  tortured 
face,  and  her  resolute  rally  from  a  threatened 
faint  was  an  eloquent  illustration  of  high  moral 
courage  vanquishing  physical  weakness.  But  her 
recovery  was  somewhat  too  sudden  and  complete. 
In  the  second  act,  after  the  midnight  marriage, 
her  outburst  of  remorse  and  despair  lacked  the 
true  throb  and  thrill,  being  only  shrill  and  loud. 
Her  acting  in  the  ensuing  scene  with  her  hus- 
band was  very  clever.  Shame,  terror,  aversion, 
were  all  expressed  in  her  attitude  of  strained  and 
dazed  expectancy.  Her  half-involuntary  shrink- 
ing from  his  proffered  embrace,  her  increasing 
humiliation,  and  her  final  desperate  admission 
of  the  truth  of  his  suspicion  that  she  still  loved 
the  man  who  had  abandoned  her,  were  all  well 
conceived  and  executed,  and  finely  consistent.  In 
the  third  act  her  growing  love  and  admiration 

432 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

for  her  husband  were  denoted  by  acting  of  very 
high  and  sympathetic  quality. 

But  the  real  triumph  of  this  representation  was 
won  by  Mr.  Kendal,  of  whom  little  was  expected, 
and  who  demonstrated  himself  a  most  sterling 
artist.  The  gentleness  and  simple  courtesy  with 
which  he  treated  his  unwilling  bride  in  the  second 
act  denoted  keen  artistic  intuition,  being  thor- 
oughly consonant  with  the  ascribed  character  of 
the  ironmaster,  and  he  depicted  the  slow  awak- 
ening of  suspicion  in  his  mind  with  a  delicacy  of 
gradation  possible  only  to  a  thoughtful  and  thor- 
oughly accomplished  actor.  When  the  whole 
truth  was  forced  upon  him,  he  rose  to  a  pitch 
of  mingled  sorrow,  wrath,  and  indignation  posi- 
tively startling  in  an  actor  from  whom  nothing 
of  the  sort  was  looked  for,  and  reached  it,  more- 
over, without  the  least  suggestion  of  rant  or 
overstrain,  or  any  loss  of  personal  dignity;  and, 
having  attained  to  this  high  level,  he  never  sank 
below  it.  Throughout  the  ensuing  act  he  main- 
tained toward  his  wife  a  kindly,  polished  dignity 
which  could  scarcely  have  been  improved  upon, 
continuing,  meanwhile,  with  admirable  subtlety, 
to  suggest  the  love  which  still  possessed  him.  In 
the  episode  of  the  necklace  there  was  a  pathos 
in  his  smothered  emotion  which  few  comedians 
could  hope  to  emulate,  and  in  the  meeting  with 

433 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

his  wife,  before  the  duel,  he  carried  off  the  chief 
honors  of  the  scene.  He  eclipsed  all  other  per- 
formances of  the  character  in  this  city  either  in 
French  or  English. 

A  detailed  description  of  all  the  parts  played 
by  the  Kendals  in  this  city  would  involve  much 
tedious  and  useless  repetition.  Most  of  them  dif- 
fered in  detail  rather  than  in  type,  and  the  exe- 
cution of  the  players,  while  proving  the  adapt- 
ability of  their  art  to  varying  circumstances, 
made  no  revelation  of  unsuspected  capacities. 
"The  Ironmaster"  brought  out  the  best  that  was 
in  them.  That  play  established  for  them  a  repu- 
tation which  they  did  nothing  to  lessen  or  greatly 
increase.  In  "The  Squire"  of  Pinero  Mr.  Ken- 
dal  had  little  to  do,  but  did  that  little  excellently, 
while  Mrs.  Kendal,  as  the  heroine,  presented  a 
fine  type  of  frank,  generous,  devoted,  pure,  and 
self-reliant  womanhood,  full  of  feeling,  but  en- 
tirely free  from  mawkish  sentiment.  As  a  whole 
her  embodiment  was  charming  and  able,  but  there 
were  spots  where  her  powers  of  emotional  utter- 
ance were  not  able  to  meet  fully  all  the  demands 
made  upon  them.  One  of  these  occurred  in  the 
scene  where  she  was  supposed  to  be  overwhelmed 
by  the  news  of  Eric  Thorndyke's  first  marriage. 

Here  she  exhibited  too  much  consciousness  of 
the  possibilities  of  mere  theatrical  device,  too 

434 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

much  solicitude  for  the  pictorial  correctness  of 
her  pose.  The  swaying  of  her  body  was  unduly 
prolonged,  and  her  gestures  generally  too  delib- 
erate. But  these  flaws  would  not  have  been  no- 
ticeable in  a  less  meritorious  achievement.  She 
was  less  severely  tried  in  ''The  Weaker  Sex" 
of  Pinero,  and  consequently  more  completely  suc- 
cessful. Here  the  story,  as  may  be  remembered, 
is  of  a  woman  who  married  unhappily  for  money 
— after  jilting  a  poorer  lover  for  that  purpose — 
and  afterward,  as  a  widow,  rediscovers  her  first 
and  only  love,  only  to  find  him  betrothed  to  her 
own  daughter.  It  is  a  tricky  and  improbable 
plot,  but  smartly  written,  with  some  lively  satire 
on  the  sex  question  and  a  variety  of  telling  situa- 
tions. Her  impersonation  was  exceptional  on 
account  of  its  physical  beauty,  its  refinement  of 
manner — a  manifestation  not  too  common  among 
aristocratic  stage  heroines — its  elaborate  artistic 
finish,  and  its  exquisite  feeling.  She  was  particu- 
larly tactful  and  natural  in  the  delineation  of 
the  complex  emotions  incidental  to  her  encounter 
with  her  old  lover,  and  her  later  scenes  with  her 
daughter  were  full  of  genuine  maternal  and 
womanly  pathos.  Her  acting  was  not  supremely 
eloquent,  but  it  was  very  human,  touching,  and 
skilful.  A  less  accomplished  actor  than  Mr.  Ken- 
dal  would  have  made  the  lover  either  mawkish  or 

435 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

priggish,  but  he  avoided  both  dangers,  and  won 
respect  and  sympathy  for  an  ungrateful  part. 

In  Godfrey's  "The  Queen's  Shilling"— long 
familiar  in  this  country,  in  slightly  different 
form,  as  "The  Lancers,"  Mrs.  Kendal  had  a 
part  which  is  a  compound  of  Lady  Gay  Spanker 
and  Miss  Hardcastle.  Neither  phase  of  it  pre- 
sented any  difficulty  to  her.  Her  breezy  spirit, 
her  coquetry,  and  her  sincere  womanliness  were 
all  delightful.  But  the  chief  acting  honors  must 
be  awarded  to  Mr.  Kendal.  His  character  of  the 
hero  was  not  arduous,  but  I  can  think  of  no 
comedian — except  possibly  Charles  Coghlan — who 
could  have  played  it  with  a  manliness  so  un- 
affected, a  manner  so  refined  and  easy,  or  a  fer- 
vor so  spontaneous.  Neither  Lester  Wallack 
nor  E.  A.  Sothern,  in  their  best  estate,  could  have 
conducted  the  flirtation  scene  at  the  piano  with 
so  graceful  an  audacity  as  he,  or  have  imparted 
such  reality  as  he  did  to  the  episode  in  which 
he  and  the  heroine  mutually  sought  to  entrap 
each  other  into  a  confession. 

In  the  drunken  scene,  again,  where  the  Colonel 
strives  to  convict  him  by  grasping  his  wounded 
arm,  he  played  with  startlingly  effective  real- 
ism. In  "Impulse,"  a  play  of  little  consequence, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kendal  once  more  challenged  com- 
parison with  Lester  Wallack  and  Eose  Coghlan, 

436 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

this  time  certainly  not  to  their  own  disadvantage, 
but  in  "All  for  Her,"  KendaPs  Hugh  Trevor, 
good  as  it  was  as  a  consistent  and  artistic  study, 
had  not  the  romantic  glamor  with  which  Wai- 
lack  invested  that  copy  of  poor  Sydney  Carton. 

Of  the  "Elder  Miss  Blossom"  it  need  only  be 
said  that  it  was  a  very  foolish  play,  written  with 
the  sole  purpose  of  displaying  Mrs.  Kendal's 
executive  abilities.  This,  in  a  way,  it  did,  and 
she  availed  herself  of  the  opportunities  af- 
forded with  her  accustomed  cleverness,  but  was 
seen  in  no  new  light.  One  of  their  interesting 
experiments  was  a  revival  of  Tom  Taylor's  old 
comedy,  "Still  Water  Euns  Deep,"  which,  con- 
ventionally theatrical  as  it  is,  is  nevertheless  an 
effective  acting  play.  Kendal,  of  course,  made 
of  Mildmay  a  fine  example  of  the  suaviter  in 
mo  do  et  fortiter  in  re,  and  Mrs.  Kendal  was  an 
excellent  Mrs.  Sternhold,  but  the  representation 
is  chiefly  worthy  of  remembrance  on  account  of 
the  Potter  of  J.  M.  Dodson,  a  master  study  of 
a  garrulous,  selfish,  cunning,  shrew-ridden  old 
man.  Taken  all  in  all,  the  performances  of  the 
Kendals  must  be  ranked  among  the  best  repre- 
sentations of  their  kind  seen  in  this  country 
during  the  last  fifty  years. 


437 


XXVIII 

HERBERT  BEERBOHM  TREE 

HEKBEET  BEERBOHM  TREE — Sir  Herbert  Tree  as 
lie  is  now — has  played  a  very  prominent  part  in 
the  history  of  the  English-speaking  stage  during 
the  last  thirty  years,  and  has  achieved  a  wide 
popularity,  but  has  never  done  anything  of  seri- 
ous dramatic  importance.  A  very  clever  man,  an 
ambitious,  artistic,  and  extraordinarily  adroit 
manager,  and  an  accomplished  performer,  thor- 
oughly expert  in  all  the  tricks  of  his  trade,  he  has 
never  established  his  right  to  a  place  in  the  ranks 
of  great  actors.  He  has  come  to  the  front  in  an 
era  of  the  second  rate.  Although  by  the  force  of 
circumstances,  and  of  his  own  tact  and  energy,  he 
has,  as  the  leading  actor-manager  in  Great  Brit- 
ain, succeeded  temporarily  to  the  position  occu- 
pied by  Henry  Irving,  he  can  not  for  an  instant 
be  classed  in  the  same  category  with  that  remark- 
able actor  and  man.  In  some  respects  he  might 
be  compared  with  Charles  Kean. 

To  players  of  such  caliber  as  Samuel  Phelps, 
Edwin  Booth,  E.  L.  Davenport,  or  Lawrence  Bar- 

438 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

rett,  lie  is  immeasurably  inferior.  A  good  actor 
— within  certain  well-defined  lines — he  undoubt- 
edly is,  but  beyond  them  he  has  never  displayed 
more  than  ordinary  ability.  In  the  great  classic 
characters,  in  many  of  which  he  has  appeared  by 
virtue  of  his  prerogative,  he  has  proved  deficient 
in  eloquence,  power,  and  imagination.  But  in 
the  splendor  of  his  professional  accoutrements, 
beauty  of  scenery,  richness  of  costume,  and  spec- 
tacular groupings,  he  has  excelled  all  his  contem- 
poraries. That  he  is  versatile  is  true.  His  tal- 
ents are  of  the  inconspicuous  kind  that  may  be 
adapted  readily  to  meet  a  great  variety  of  condi- 
tions, but  not  conditions  of  the  most  exacting 
kind.  They  are  impotent  to  aid  him  in  charac- 
ters whose  attributes — humorous,  imaginative,  or 
emotional — transcend  the  ordinary.  The  mimetic 
faculty  in  him  is  strongly  developed,  but  between 
mimicry  and  dramatic  expression  there  is  very 
little  in  common. 

It  was  in  January,  1895,  that  he  made  his  first 
appearance  in  this  city,  playing  two  characters, 
Gringoire,  the  half-starved  poet  in  Theodore  de 
Banville's  little  drama,  and  Demetrius,  the  police 
spy,  in  Outram  Tristram's  Russian  melodrama, 
' '  The  Red  Lamp. ' '  In  the  one  case  he  was  called 
upon  to  depict  haggard,  ragged  youth,  in  the 
other  bloated  age,  and  in  both,  so  far  as  the 

439 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

physical  representation  was  concerned,  lie  suc- 
ceeded perfectly.  Gringoire  had  already  been 
played  here  by  Coquelin  and  Lawrence  Barrett. 
The  great  French  comedian  portrayed  it  with 
minute  and  realistic  finish,  and  with  infinite 
humor  and  tenderness,  if  very  little  pathos.  Law- 
rence Barrett  imparted  to  it  the  earnestness  and 
some  of  the  glow  of  a  romantic  passion. 

Tree's  impersonation  lacked  the  humor  and 
naturalness  of  the  one  and  the  fire  of  the  other. 
It  appealed  to  the  eye  constantly,  to  the  under- 
standing occasionally,  to  the  heart  but  rarely. 
The  long,  lean  figure  of  the  actor  was  well  suited 
to  the  part  of  the  famished  hedge  poet,  and  he 
made  its  outlines  almost  spectral  by  the  elabora- 
tion of  his  rags  and  tatters.  He  somehow  sug- 
gested the  memory  of  Barnaby  Budge.  The 
whole  effect  was  theatrical,  an  impression  height- 
ened by  the  studied  extravagance  of  almost  every 
gesture  and  motion.  The  mechanical  execution 
was  deft  and  sure,  but  in  this  scarecrow  there 
was  neither  heart  nor  poetry. 

As  the  elderly  Demetrius,  he  presented  an 
amazing  metamorphosis.  With  his  false  head, 
padded  body,  and  red  face,  covered  with  liquorish 
blotches,  he  was  totally  unrecognizable,  and  he 
deepened  the  contrast  by  discarding  all  the  un- 
natural exuberance  of  Gringoire's  gesture  and 

440 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

counterfeiting  the  sluggishness  of  age.  This  was 
sufficiently  easy.  The  actual  personality  of 
Demetrius,  as  presented,  was  an  obvious  absurd- 
ity. A  spy,  who  should  aggressively  and  rudely 
thrust  his  nose,  his  eyes,  and  ears  into  everybody 
else's  business,  advertising  his  trade,  as  it  were, 
in  the  biggest  sort  of  display  type,  would  not 
be  worth  his  salt  to  the  Russian  or  any  other 
Government.  A  more  serious  objection  is  that 
the  figure,  supposed  to  be  fraught  with  such  evil 
potentiality,  conveyed  no  sense  of  formidableness 
or  menace.  It  was  comic  and  insignificant.  As 
in  the  case  of  Gringoire,  the  true  dramatic  im- 
pulse was  lacking. 

In  Sidney  Grundy's  "A  Bunch  of  Violets,"  a 
free  adaptation  from  the  "Montjoye"  of  Octave 
Feuillet,  Mr.  Tree  played  virtually  the  part  made 
memorable  by  Charles  Coghlan  at  the  Union 
Square  Theater.  The  latter  gave  an  almost  ideal 
interpretation  of  a  character — unnatural  in  itself 
— in  which  power  of  will  and  intellect  is  devoted 
unscrupulously  to  the  attainment  of  base  ends, 
in  defiance  of  the  humaner  emotions.  In  this 
embodiment,  deprived  of  the  aids  of  disguise  and 
mimicry,  Mr.  Tree  did  good,  but  not  extraor- 
dinary, work.  He  was  more  demonstrative,  more 
showily  theatrical,  than  Coghlan,  but  he  had  not 
his  superfine  polish,  his  skill  in  the  subtle  denote- 

441 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

ment  of  internal  conflict  raging  beneath  resolutely 
maintained  impassivity,  or  his  air  of  dominant 
authority.  He  showed  great  skill,  however,  in 
showing  the  workings  of  a  crafty  mind  of  a  dis- 
tinctly inferior  order,  and  he  was  impressive, 
though  not  thrilling,  in  the  passions  of  defeat.  In 
the  scene  where  he  was  unexpectedly  confronted 
in  his  own  drawing-room  by  the  woman  whom  he 
had  discarded  long  years  before,  his  acting  was 
exceedingly  clever,  good  in  byplay  and  expres- 
sion, and  free  from  exaggeration.  And  his  emo- 
tion, on  the  subsequent  collapse  of  his  intrigues, 
had  some  genuine  ring  in  it,  but  it  was  not  sug- 
gestive of  the  convulsion  that  should  accompany 
the  defeat  of  so  resolute  and  imperious  a  spirit. 
Mrs.  Tree  played  the  malicious  adventuress  with 
much  vivacity,  humor,  and  incisiveness.  As  the 
hero  of  "Captain  Swift,'*  Mr.  Tree  indicated 
very  adroitly  the  anxieties  of  conscious  guilt  and 
the  impulses  of  a  lawless  nature  disguised  by  a 
veneer  of  civilization,  but  the  romantic  side  of 
the  character,  with  its  essential  virility,  its  pic- 
turesque audacity,  promptitude,  and  vigor,  was 
more  vividly  illustrated  by  Maurice  Barrymore, 
who  had  not  a  tithe  of  his  stage  cunning. 

The  limitations  of  his  histrionic  capacity  were 
sharply  emphasized  when  he  tried  to  play  Fal- 
staff  in  "The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor."  The 

442 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

impersonation  has  often  been  cited  in  evidence 
of  his  versatility,  but  actually  it  proved  nothing 
but  his  resourcefulness  in  the  art  of  ''make-up." 
Even  his  face,  with  its  high  coloring,  false  nose, 
false  cheeks,  false  chin,  and  false  brow,  was 
transformed  beyond  all  possibility  of  recognition.* 
But  it  is  one  thing  to  construct  a  model  and  an- 
other to  endow  it  with  life.  It  is  in  the  second 
process  that  the  true  versatility  lies.  He  sub- 
jected himself,  of  course,  to  a  tremendous  handi- 
cap in  virtually  denying  himself  all  possibility 
of  facial  play.  This  was  especially  serious  in 
the  case  of  an  actor  whose  voice  was  thin  and  in- 
flexible. He  made  heroic  efforts  to  produce  the 
mellow  and  sonorous  bass  which  naturally  would 
be  expected  to  issue  from  a  bulk  so  portentous, 
but  these  were  not  very  successful.  Had  he  used 
his  voice  naturally,  and  trusted  to  expression 
rather  than  sound,  it  is  probable  that  he  could 
have  come  much  nearer  to  illusion.  The  obvious 
and  fatal  fault  of  the  impersonation  was  its  per- 
vading artificiality.  It  was  wholly  devoid  of  spon- 
taneous humor,  although  it  evinced  ample  sense 
of  comic  situation.  Even  the  fatness  of  it  was 
unconvincing,  except  when  in  repose.  It  was  con- 
stantly too  nimble  in  movement  and  too  prodigal 
of  gesture,  exhibiting  an  activity  altogether  incon- 

*  This  make-up  was  wisely  modified  in  later  years. 

443 


SIXTY   YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

sistent  with  its  apparent  unwieldiness.  All  the 
humor  of  it  resided  in  extravagant  pantomime. 
Of  course,  the  Falstaff  of  "The  Merry  Wives" 
is  not  the  rich  mine  afforded  by  the  inimitable 
Fat  Jack  of  "Henry  IV,"  but  there  is  a  vast 
abundance  of  comic  stuff  in  him  for  the  actor 
who  can  enter  into  his  spirit.  Mr.  Tree's  Falstaff 
was  bulk  without  substance.  But  if  his  Falstaff 
was  dull  and  amateurish,  what  must  be  said  of 
his  Hamlet?  I  do  not  remember  seeing  any  seri- 
ous representation  of  this  character — with  the 
possible  exception  of  Wilson  Barrett's — in  which 
the  inner  beauties  and  significance  of  this  mar- 
velous creation,  the  qualities  that  appeal  to  heart 
and  brain,  were  so  utterly  disregarded  for  the 
sake  of  superficial,  conventional,  and  melodra- 
matic expedients.  From  beginning  to  end,  from 
"a  little  more  than  kin"  to  "the  rest  is  silence," 
the  one  prominent  characteristic  was  the  relent- 
less pursuit  and  capture  of  every  traditional  the- 
atrical "point"  and  the  execution  of  it  in  the 
most  public  manner  possible.  A  score  of  illus- 
trations might  be  given.  Among  them  were  his 
restless  and  perpetual  use  of  the  portrait  about 
his  neck,  his  frantic  scribbling  in  his  tablets,  his 
constant  flourishing  of  his  sword,  the  rapid 
alternations  of  fortissimo  and  pianissimo  in  his 
speech,  his  employment  of  musical  chords  at  the 

444 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

supreme  moment  of  the  Ghost's  declaration  of 
the  murder,  his  violence  to  Ophelia,  his  most  un- 
princely  rudeness  to  Polonius  and  others,  and  his 
antics  during  the  play  scene.  The  whole  per- 
formance was  shallow,  imperceptive,  fussy,  un- 
poetic,  and  melodramatic.  Barely  has  the  sweet 
and  melancholy  Prince  been  so  unfeelingly  man- 
handled. 

Beerbohm  Tree  gave  one  of  his  most  satisfac- 
tory performances  in  "An  Enemy  of  the  People." 
The  fact  is  somewhat  significant.  No  first-class 
actor  has  ever  been  permanently  attracted  by 
Ibsen,  no  experienced  and  fairly  competent  player 
of  the  second  class  has  ever  completely  failed  in 
him.  This  is  because — in  his  social  drama  at  all 
events — he  deals  essentially  with  the  common- 
place, even  when,  as  in  "Hedda  Gabler,"  for 
instance,  he  is  freakish.  He  does  not  deal  with 
the  nobler  emotions  or  give  any  scope  for  the 
exercise  of  soaring  imagination.  In  other  words, 
he  is  comparatively  easy  to  act,  and  that  is  one 
reason  why  he  has  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of 
many  players  of  moderate  ability.  "An  Enemy 
of  the  People,"  although  the  philosophy  of  it  is 
too  old  and  trite  to  be  particularly  precious,  is  a 
good,  wholesome  play,  containing  faithful  copies 
of  familiar  types,  and  illustrating  a  melancholy 
truth  with  forcible  satire.  For  the  most  part,  Mr. 

446 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Tree  played  the  philanthropic,  enthusiastic,  hon- 
est, and  disillusioned  Stockman  exceedingly  well. 
In  all  externals,  in  make-up,  dress,  and  carefully 
considered  details  of  action  and  gesture,  he  was 
admirable.  The  zeal,  the  impetuosity,  the  inno- 
cence, and  the  unconscious  vanity  of  the  man 
were  indicated  with  keen  intelligence  and  artis- 
tic nicety,  but  at  the  crucial  moments,  when  indig- 
nation and  scorn  ought  to  blaze  out  of  him,  there 
was  no  heat  in  the  noisy  passion.  With  all  the 
agitation  on  the  surface  there  was  no  suggestion 
of  upheaval  from  the  depths. 

In  "Trilby"  he  found  in  Svengali  a  character 
after  his  own  heart,  eccentric,  colorful,  extrava- 
gant, melodramatic.  Wilton  Lackaye's  study  of 
the  hypnotist,  theatrically  effective  as  it  undoubt- 
edly was,  and  is,  in  its  bold  outlines  and  lurid 
coloring,  seemed  but  a  clumsy  bit  of  work  in 
comparison  with  this  subtler,  truer,  more  finely 
finished  and  thoroughly  consistent  impersona- 
tion, which  from  first  to  last  was  strikingly  sug- 
gestive of  the  "dirty  spider"  to  which  Trilby 
compared  him.  The  effect  of  his  "make-up"  was 
intensified  by  the  length  of  his  lean  figure.  The 
swift,  noiseless,  catlike  movements,  watchful  eyes, 
and  ghastly  face,  incessant  restlessness,  and  the 
curiously  skilful  blend  of  fawning  and  arrogance, 
contributed  to  an  abnormal,  but  not  wholly  in- 

446 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

credible,  individuality  which  will  long  live  in  the 
memory.  The  egotism,  meanness,  cynical  selfish- 
ness, and  innate  ferocity  of  the  creature  were 
vividly  exposed;  but  in  all  its  viciousness  and 
degradation — and  herein  lay  the  special  excel- 
lence of  the  portrayal — there  was  the  constant 
intimation  of  the  artistic  sense,  the  love  of  music 
for  its  own  sake  as  well  as  its  rewards,  which 
was  the  villain's  one  redeeming  grace.  In  this 
fantastic  creation  Mr.  Tree  came  nearer  to  the 
establishment  of  perfect  illusion  than  ever  before. 
It  was  a  wonderful  performance  of  its  kind,  but 
it  should  be  noted  that  it  involved  no  manifesta- 
tion of  the  higher  kind  of  emotional  eloquence, 
nor  the  embodiment  of  any  great  ideal.  As  an 
eccentric  comedian,  Mr.  Tree  has  few  if  any 
rivals,  but  the  great  masterpieces  of  tragedy  and 
comedy — Hamlet,  Othello,  Macbeth,  Lear,  and  Sir 
Peter  Teazle — lie  far  beyond  his  artistic  reach. 


447 


XXIX 

JOHNSTON  FORBES-ROBERTSON,  E.   S.  WIL- 
LARD,  JOHN  HARE,  AND  OTHERS 

JOHNSTON  FORBES-ROBERTSON  belongs  to  the 
twentieth  rather  than  the  nineteenth  century,  but 
may  not  be  passed  over  in  silence.  He  is  an 
accomplished  artist  rather  than  a  great  actor. 
Intellectuality,  refinement,  a  winning  presence, 
and  a  beautiful  delivery  are  his  great  assets. 
Pathos,  not  very  deep,  but  true,  he  has,  and 
humor,  and  much  technical  skill  and  imagina- 
tion, but  not  tragic  power  in  any  considerable 
degree.  Nature  endowed  him  with  a  fine,  expres- 
sive face  and  a  rare  voice — rich,  vibrant,  mellow, 
flexible — and  in  the  use  of  it  he  took  Phelps  as 
his  model.  He  could  have  found  no  better.  To- 
day his  utterance  is  the  clearest,  the  most  preg- 
nant, the  most  varied,  and  the  most  mellifluous 
upon  the  stage.  He  has  the  scholarship  and  taste 
that  impart  clarity,  crispness,  point,  and  tone  to 
diction.  Herein  lies  his  supreme  excellence  as  an 
artist.  In  his  youth  he  was  in  much  request  to 
play  the  heroes  of  juvenile  romance  and  acquired 
much  valuable  experience.  In  them  he  was  ele- 

448 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

gant,  eloquent,  correct,  and  sympathetic;  but  re- 
vealed no  great  dramatic  power.  Nor  has  he 
since.  He  can  be  dignified,  impressive,  or  intense, 
but  not  volcanic  or  thrilling.  Orlando  he  played 
excellently,  and  Borneo  also,  in  the  earlier  scenes, 
with  ardor,  grace,  and  virility,  but  in  the  tragic 
parts  he  was  labored  and  ineffectual. 

His  one  great  achievement  in  Shakespearean 
tragedy — the  only  great  character,  indeed,  upon 
which  he  set  his  seal — was  his  Hamlet.  That  was 
an  exquisite,  profoundly  interesting,  intellectual, 
and  distinctive  bit  of  work,  in  many  ways  incom- 
parably the  best  of  recent  years.  Upon  it  his 
fame  as  an  actor  will  mainly  depend.  Person- 
ally, greatly  as  I  enjoyed  and  admired  it,  and 
grateful  as  I  was  for  it,  I  have  always  thought 
that  it  held  more  of  Forbes-Robertson  than  of 
the  true  Hamlet.  Charles  Fechter,  in  his  prime, 
got  nearer  to  my  ideal  of  the  Prince  than  any 
other  actor  I  have  ever  seen  in  the  part.  His 
was  an  emotional  rather  than  a  mental  study  and 
made  the  Dane  more  human  and  actual,  a  lover 
as  well  as  courtier,  soldier,  and  philosopher. 
But,  of  course,  he  could  not  speak  the  lines  with 
the  consummate  linguistic  art  of  Robertson,  per- 
fectly as  he  comprehended  them.  Next  to  Fech- 
ter's  Hamlet  I  place  Booth's,  which  had  emotion 
as  well  as  intellect,  and  third  Robertson's,  in 

449 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

which  the  heart  was  always  much  less  active  than 
the  brains. 

E.  S.  Willard,  a  fine  actor,  of  far  wider  emo- 
tional range  than  Forbes-Eobertson,  though  of 
less  pronounced  intellectuality,  failed  badly  in 
Hamlet.  His  aim  apparently  was  to  present  him 
in  the  naturalistic  terms  which  he  had  employed 
with  such  triumphant  results  in  the  modern  prose 
drama.  His  Prince,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
was  without  glamor,  romance,  melancholy,  phil- 
osophy, or  dignity,  neither  prince  nor  soldier, 
scholar  nor  lover  but  a  youth  of  common  melo- 
dramatic mold  despondent  or  robustious  by 
turns,  but  never  impressive.  It  was  a  great  dis- 
appointment, for  Mr.  Willard — all  too  soon  re- 
tired— was  a  versatile  player  of  rare  ability  and 
power.  His  portrayal  of  the  old  potter,  Cyrus 
Blenkarn,  in  "The  Middleman"  of  Henry  Arthur 
Jones,  at  once  put  him  in  the  front  rank  of  emo- 
tional actors.  His  exhibition  of  delirious  exulta- 
tion over  the  discovery  that  insured  him  wealth 
and  the  means  to  gratify  his  revenge  upon  the 
wrecker  of  his  happiness  and  betrayer  of  his 
daughter  was  realistic  in  the  highest  degree. 

The  Judah  of  the  same  author  demonstrated 
his  great  versatility.  A  wider  contrast  could 
scarcely  be  presented  than  that  between  old  Blen- 
karn and  the  fanatical  young  clergyman  led  by 

450 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

love  into  a  betrayal  of  his  conscience.  This  lat- 
ter embodiment,  if  less  theatrically  effective  than 
the  other,  was  infinitely  more  subtle  and  on  a 
higher  plane  of  art.  The  actor,  with  great  clever- 
ness, succeeded  in  reflecting  the  inner  nature  of 
the  entranced  lover,  the  simple  fervor  of  his 
faith,  his  inclination  toward  the  supernatural, 
and  his  indulgence  in  ecstatic  dreams,  half  poetic, 
half  devout.  When  he  ascribed  the  power  of  his 
oratory  to  the  stedfastness  of  his  faith  he  spoke 
with  an  illumination  that  carried  the  conviction 
of  absolute  sincerity.  In  the  later  scenes  of  anx- 
iety, remorse,  and  confession,  he  acted  with  that 
simple  realism  which  can  be  produced  only  by 
the  most  artful  means.  In  "John  Needham's 
Double,"  a  bit  of  sheer  melodrama,  he  gave  fur- 
ther proof  of  his  versatility  by  the  consistency 
and  ease  with  which  he  maintained  a  double  per- 
sonality, one  open-hearted,  frank,  and  generous, 
the  other  crafty,  cruel  and,  in  the  end,  bloody 
and  desperate.  It  was  in  marking  the  gradual 
progress  from  bad  to  worse  of  the  criminal  that 
he  showed  the  discrimination  of  the  artist.  His 
performance  was  many  times  better  than  the 
play. 

But  it  was  in  "The  Professor's  Love  Story/' 
perhaps,  that  he  made  the  most  popular  hit  of 
his  American  career.  This  was  one  of  the  many 

451 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

notable  cases  in  which  public  taste  was  abun- 
dantly vindicated.  The  play  itself,  dramatically 
considered,  was  of  small  account,  with  a  loose, 
fragile,  and  often  extravagant  story.  Many  of 
the  characters,  to  be  frank,  were  dull  and  un- 
natural, but  others,  including  that  of  the  central 
figure,  were  invested  with  all  that  tender,  dainty, 
whimsical  imagination  and  sympathetic  charm 
characteristic  of  the  genius  of  Barrie  at  his  best. 
But  the  success  won  was  due,  primarily  and  em- 
phatically, to  the  acting  of  Mr.  Willard  as  Prof. 
Goodwillie.  The  impersonation,  like  all  the 
others  presented  here  by  this  fine  player,  was  a 
consistent  study  of  character  from  beginning  to 
end,  with  a  strongly  marked  individuality,  signi- 
fied by  a  pure  histrionism  almost  completely 
independent  of  the  tricks  of  the  theatrical 
dresser.  The  face  was  not  disguised  at  all,  and 
there  was  no  eccentric  peculiarity  of  costume  to 
conceal  poverty  of  artistic  resource.  The  quick 
and  eloquent  play  of  feature,  always  a  special 
feature  of  this  actor's  work,  proved  of  inesti- 
mable value  in  the  interpretation  of  a  character 
so  largely  intellectual.  Much  of  the  play  is  farci- 
cal, some  of  it  somewhat  clumsily  farcical,  but 
Mr.  Willard,  while  he  was  on  the  stage,  kept  it 
in  the  higher  regions  of  comedy. 

Even  when  he  had  to  dip  his  pen  into  water 

452 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

and  drink  the  ink — a  very  stale  and  clownish 
device — he  did  it  so  simply  and  naturally  that 
common  sense  escaped  with  a  moderate  shock. 
His  worn  and  anxious  face,  his  restless  and  im- 
pulsive gesture,  his  troubled  eye  and  dreamy 
manner,  the  impatient  sighs  with  which  he  real- 
ized that  his  power  of  concentration  in  his  work 
was  deserting  him,  his  vague  uneasiness  when  his 
fair  young  secretary  was  absent,  and  his  per- 
fectly unconscious  devotion  to  her  when  present, 
combined  to  make  a  picture  of  extraordinary 
fidelity  to  nature,  of  the  choicest  humor,  and  of 
no  little  pathos.  The  gradual  awakening  of  the 
love-sick  student  to  the  true  state  of  his  case  was 
accomplished  in  gradations  of  admirable  sub- 
tlety, through  the  most  delicate  modifications  of 
speech  and  manner,  and  in  the  masterly  scene 
— the  best  in  the  play — where  the  professor,  after 
a  brief  hour  of  supreme  happiness,  being  led  to 
believe  that  the  girl  does  not  really  love  him, 
bravely  offers  her  freedom,  covering  his  own 
breaking  heart  with  a  smile,  Mr.  Willard  rose 
to  the  situation  with  really  beautiful  simplicity 
and  power.  One  such  episode  as  this  atones,  by 
the  generous  emotions  which  it  excites,  for  a 
great  many  stage  offenses. 

In  "A  Rogue's   Comedy"   and   "The   Physi- 
cian," two  ingenious  but  not  valuable  plays  by 

453 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Henry  Arthur  Jones,  well  provided  with  effective 
theatrical  situations,  Mr.  Willard  again  demon- 
strated his  faculty  of  impersonation  and  his  com- 
plete efficiency  in  every  department  of  social 
melodrama,  but  did  nothing  that  impressed  itself 
very  vividly  on  the  memory ;  but  some  time  after- 
ward, in  a  sketch  founded  on  "  Martin  Chuzzle- 
wit,"  he  presented  an  embodiment  of  Tom  Pinch 
which  may,  without  exaggeration,  be  called  a 
masterpiece.  He  really  made  the  conception  of 
Dickens  live  in  action,  and,  indeed,  may  be  said 
to  have  improved  upon  it,  for  he  not  only  invested 
it  with  all  the  attributes  of  tender,  simple,  brave, 
and  loyal  humanity,  that  have  given  it  a  place 
of  such  high  distinction  in  the  immortal  Dickens 
portrait  gallery,  but  with  the  most  discerning 
artistry  avoided  some  of  those  occasional  touches 
of  comic  or  sentimental  exaggeration  which 
marred  not  a  few  of  the  great  humorist's  most 
vital  creations.  As  an  example  of  pure,  realistic, 
interpretative  comedy,  I  should  rank  it  among 
the  highest  achievements  of  the  modern  stage. 
It  was  not  only  in  its  physical  presentment — in 
the  perfection  of  disguise  and  carriage — but  in 
soul  and  spirit,  that  the  fictitious  creature  lived. 
And  when  it  is  remembered  that  the  impersona- 
tor of  Prof.  Goodwillie  and  Tom  Pinch  first  won 
fame  as  the  ideal  villain  of  British  melodrama, 

454 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

the  wonderful  development  of  the  actor  in  skill 
and  range  will  be  realized,  and  his  premature 
retirement  more  deeply  regretted.  But  he 
worked,  as  I  believe,  long  enough  to  reveal  the 
best  that  was  in  him.  A  genuine  actor,  from 
top  to  toe,  potent  in  passion  and  pathos,  with  a 
keen  sense  of  character  and  ample  executive  re- 
sources for  its  portrayal,  his  emotional  and  im- 
aginative grasp  had  its  limitations.  These  were 
defined  sharply  in  his  Hamlet,  and  there  is  no 
good  reason  for  supposing  that  he  could  have 
triumphed  in  poetic  tragedy.  But  in  his  own 
wide  field  he  was  one  of  the  most  accomplished 
and  versatile  players  in  his  generation. 

John  Hare  has  long  enjoyed  the  reputation 
of  being  the  neatest  executant  among  the  light 
and  eccentric  comedians  of  the  English  stage. 
He  is  a  master  of  minute  and  suggestive,  not 
fidgety,  detail.  And  he  is  a  first-rate  comedian 
of  the  dry,  cynical,  polished  type.  With  the  ele- 
mental and  robuster  emotions  he  does  not  deal, 
although  he  can  exhibit  vigor  or  anger.  He  can 
be  testy  or  urbane  and  gently  sympathetic,  but 
his  pathos  is  somewhat  thin.  As  a  sharp-witted, 
well-bred,  experienced,  and  tolerant  man  of  the 
world  he  has  had  few  equals  and  fewer  superiors. 
A  great  actor  he  has  not  been,  for  he  has  rarely, 
if  ever,  played  a  part  making  any  serious  demand 

455 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

upon  the  emotional  or  imaginative  faculties.  His 
acting  resembles  a  jewel  valued  more  for  the 
workmanship  than  the  substance.  His  first  ap- 
pearance in  this  country  was  made  as  that  elderly 
debauchee,  the  Duke  of  St.  Olpherts,  in  "The 
Notorious  Mrs.  Ebbsmith."  His  manner  was 
perfect.  His  ease,  his  deliberation,  his  superior- 
ity to  all  emotion,  his  epicurean  enjoyment  of  a 
new  sensation  even  at  his  own  expense,  his  equa- 
nimity under  provocation,  and  the  deadly  nature 
of  his  smiling  retorts  were  all  brilliant  features 
of  an  exquisitely  artistic  and  finished  embodi- 
ment. It  was  a  superb  bit  of  artistry  in  which 
there  was  nothing  to  admire  but  the  execution. 

In  "A  Pair  of  Spectacles"  his  skill  was  de- 
voted to  a  better  purpose,  and  exhibited  fine 
qualities.  Beyond  question,  his  Benjamin  Gold- 
finch, as  a  piece  of  acting,  was  much  finer  than 
that  of  Mr.  Stoddart.  At  the  family  breakfast 
table  the  little,  old-fashioned,  white-headed  figure 
seemed  to  radiate  benevolence.  It  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  conjure  up  a  vision  more  suggestive  of 
beaming  good  will.  The  simplicity  and  sponta- 
neity of  it  were  delightful.  Afterward  he  de- 
noted the  slow  growth  of  suspicion  in  a  hitherto 
trustful  heart  with  a  multitude  of  felicitous 
strokes  betokening  the  keenest  observation  and 
delicate  humor.  At  the  crisis  of  his  transforma- 

456 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

tion  he  exhibited  a  degree  of  heat  and  passion  of 
which  he  might  scarcely  have  been  thought  capa- 
ble. It  was  very  clever  acting,  but  in  these 
places  the  outbursts  of  Stoddart  had  the  more 
genuine  ring.  In  "A  Quiet  Rubber"  his  study 
of  the  testy  old  Irishman,  Lord  Kildare,  had  all 
the  delicate  finish  of  an  etching,  but  in  this  case 
again  the  mechanism  was  clearly  superior  to  the 
material. 

A  similar  remark  would  apply,  with  equal 
appositeness,  to  his  Spencer  Jermyn  in  "The 
Hobby  Horse"  of  Pinero,  a  piece  in  which  smart- 
ness of  dialogue  and  two  or  three  ingenious  situa- 
tions made  some  amends  for  an  improbable  story 
and  lack  of  real  dramatic  interest.  As  the  sport- 
ing squire,  who  regarded  the  turf  as  the  noblest 
and  most  beneficent  of  social  institutions,  he  pre- 
sented a  most  life-like  picture  of  a  dapper  little 
country  gentleman,  not  too  wise,  generous,  hot- 
tempered,  opinionated,  whimsical,  and  affection- 
ate, with  a  ready  tongue  and  a  charming  address. 
The  part  required  no  special  dramatic  ability 
except  in  the  one  scene  when  Jermyn  learns  the 
truth  about  his  wife's  foolish  but  innocent  esca- 
pade and  its  serious  consequences,  and  apologises 
to  the  unlucky  curate  who  has  been  the  chief 
sufferer.  In  this  Mr.  Hare,  assuming  a  complex 
mood  in  which  anger,  irony,  and  a  sense  of 

457 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

humiliation  were   skilfully   blended,    acted   with 
great  naturalness  and  the  nicest  discernment. 

Mr.  Hare  laid  the  foundations  of  his  great 
reputation  in  England  by  the  pre-Eaphaelite  fin- 
ish of  his  impersonations  in  Tom  Robertson's 
comedies.  One  of  the  most  admired  of  these 
was  his  Sam  Gerridge  in  "Caste."  Here  he 
preferred  to  play  the  part  of  Eccles,  closely  asso- 
ciated in  the  minds  of  local  playgoers  with  the 
racy  and  liquorish  humor  of  William  Davidge 
and  George  Honey.  It  was  hinted,  not  without 
plausibility,  that  Mr.  Hare  would  act  it  along 
new  lines,  giving  it  an  air  of  faded  respectabil- 
ity. But  he  made  no  such  mistake  as  that.  His 
Eccles,  if  less  boldly  and  broadly  comic  than 
those  of  some  of  his  predecessors,  was  to  the  full 
as  truthful,  humorous,  and  disreputable.  The  faint 
suggestion  of  bygone  better  days,  the  occasional 
vestiges  of  such  gentility  as  might  become  a  de- 
cayed waiter,  with  which  he  endowed  him,  only 
served  to  emphasize  the  sodden  wretchedness, 
meanness,  and  degradation  of  the  man.  His 
make-up,  with  the  pallid,  bloated,  jellied  features, 
thin  and  straggling  hair,  limp  whiskers,  shaking 
lips  and  hands,  and  lean  and  palsied  figure  clad 
in  a  filthy  shirt  and  threadbare  suit,  was  perfect, 
and  his  acting,  with  its  alternations  of  cringing 
and  bullying,  of  pitiful  whining  and  contemptible 

458 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

self-assertion,  its  maudlin  pathos,  its  moments  of 
hiccoughing  declamation,  and  outbreaks  of  impo- 
tent and  hysterical  anger,  was  wonderfully  real- 
istic. The  whole  impersonation  might  have  been 
a  copy  from  life,  finished  with  a  minuteness  that 
might  almost  have  challenged  examination  by  a 
microscope.  And  this  flawless  finish  was  char- 
acteristic of  all  the  work  that  Mr.  Hare  did  at 
the  time  of  which  I  am  writing  and  later.  It  was 
fascinating  to  watch  the  deftness,  inerrancy,  and 
ease  of  his  execution.  And  expertness  of  this 
kind,  of  course,  is  proof  of  the  high  intelligence 
that  lies  behind  it.  The  fact  remains  that  Mr. 
Hare,  or  Sir  John  Hare,  as  he  is  now,  has  con- 
fined himself  hitherto  to  characters  destitute  of 
those  elements  which  provide  the  most  severe 
tests  for  histrionic  genius,  and  he  has,  there- 
fore, no  legitimate  claim  for  admission  to  the 
ranks  of  great  actors.  But  in  his  own  line  he 
is  a  consummate  artist. 

Among  our  many  visitors  from  the  English 
stage  there  are  several  who  must  be  mentioned 
if  only  to  prove  that  they  have  not  been  over- 
looked. Genevieve  Ward  (the  Madame  Guera- 
bella  of  long-ago  opera  days)  is  one  of  them. 
She  achieved  distinction,  but  not  greatness.  She 
approached  it  most  nearly,  perhaps,  in  her  Lady 
Macbeth,  a  most  impressive  and  capable  perform- 

459 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

ance,  forceful,  intelligent,  and  majestic,  but  lack- 
ing, in  the  crises,  the  essential  fire.  She  had  dig- 
nity, refinement,  strength,  artistry,  a  fine  voice  and 
elocutionary  skill,  with  a  special  faculty  for  the 
incisive  delivery  of  lines  barbed  with  scorn  or 
wit.  It  is  by  her  performance  of  the  adven- 
turess in  "Forget-Me-Not"  that  she  will  be 
chiefly  remembered.  It  had  the  grace,  the  supple- 
ness, the  glitter,  and  the  deadly  venom  of  the 
serpent.  But  impersonations  of  this  order  have 
no  real  bigness.  The  artistic  merits  of  Mrs. 
Langtry  were  infinitesimal,  but  she  acquired,  at 
the  last,  a  certain  measure  of  technical  efficiency. 
Olga  Nethersole,  in  her  earlier  days,  manifested 
a  natural  impulsive  power,  which  encouraged 
bright  hopes  for  her  future,  which  have  not  been, 
fulfilled.  In  hypersentimental  and  morbid  emo- 
tionalism there  is  neither  charm  nor  utility. 

Charles  Wyndham  for  years  conferred  the  boon 
of  innocent  merriment  upon  multitudes  by  his 
vivacity,  activity,  and  dexterity  in  a  series  of 
farcical  comedies.  He  was  a  comedian  of  the 
Charles  Mathews  order.  He  had  the  volatility 
of  the  latter,  but  not  his  finesse  or  versatility. 
He  had  neither  passion  nor  pathos.  His  per- 
formance of  David  Garrick,  in  which  he  was 
extremely  popular,  was  inferior  to  that  of  E.  A. 
Sothern.  His  Charles  Surface  had  dash  and 

460 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

gayety,  but  was  not  comparable  with  that  of 
Charles  Coghlan.  A  good,  serviceable  come- 
dian, he  owed  much  of  his  prominence  to  the 
fact  that  he  was  his  own  manager,  and  his  dis- 
cernment in  the  selection  of  his  plays  and  his 
supporting  casts.  Miss  Mary  Moore  (Mrs.  James 
Albery),  a  capital  actress  in  light  eccentric  com- 
edy, has  contributed  largely  to  the  success  of 
some  of  his  most  profitable  productions,  and  for 
a  long  time  .George  Giddens  was  a  tower  of 
strength  in  his  company.  Mr.  Giddens  is  prob- 
ably the  best  low  comedian  upon  the  English- 
speaking  stage  to-day.  He  is  versatile,  has  the 
true  vis  comica,  and  is  expert  in  all  the  mechan- 
ics of  acting. 

In  this  casual  review  of  the  New  York  theater 
during  the  last  quarter  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, some  performers  of  capacity  or  note  may 
have  escaped  mention,  but,  I  think,  not  many.  Of 
the  illustrious  foreigners  who  have  played  here 
in  their  own  language — Duse,  Bernhardt,  Coque- 
lin,  Jane  Hading,  Mounet-Sully,  Rejane,  and 
others — I  have  not  spoken  because  they  have  no 
direct  relation  to  the  American  stage.  An  excep- 
tion was  made  in  the  case  of  Salvini,  first,  on 
account  of  the  superlative  value  of  the  example 
that  he  set,  and,  secondly,  because  he  used  an 
English-speaking  support.  The  record,  as  it 

461 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

stands,  is  not  inspiriting,  so  far  as  the  art  of 
acting  is  concerned.  It  indicates  a  condition  of 
progressive  decadence.  The  high  imaginative 
drama,  tragic  or  romantic,  has  virtually  disap- 
peared, not  because  the  public  will  have  none 
of  it — for  occasional  revivals  of  it  are  eagerly 
attended — but  for  the  lack  of  competent  inter- 
preters. 

To-day  there  are  not  on  the  American  stage 
half  a  dozen  players,  male  or  female,  who  could 
bear  the  test  of  comparison  with  any  one  of  fifty 
who  were  flourishing  thirty  or  forty  years  ago. 
Of  great  actors  there  is  not  one.  The  best  we 
have,  in  almost  every  department  of  drama — 
musical  comedy  and  wild  farce,  of  course,  are  not 
included  in  that  category — are  survivors  of  a 
past  generation.  Stars  there  are  in  plenty,  but 
only  two  or  three  of  them  could  by  any  stretch  of 
courtesy  be  called  first-rate  actors.  Most  of  them 
are  specialists  in  the  art  of  self-reproduction, 
and,  therefore,  utterly  unprogressive.  The  name 
of  the  new  performers  is  legion,  but  the  number 
of  them  who  exhibit  signs  of  brilliant  promise 
is  woefully  small.  In  all  the  arts  of  production — 
in  painting,  lighting,  machinery,  and  spectacle, 
even  in  playwriting — the  stage  is  making  prog- 
ress, but  the  races  of  competent  actors  is  threat- 
ened with  extinction. 

462 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

Why  this  is  so  is  no  mystery.  It  is  the 
inevitable  result,  long  ago  foreseen  and  foretold, 
of  the  prevailing  system  of  purely  commercial 
management  that  has  obliterated  the  old  stock 
companies  (not  the  modern  affairs  of  two  per- 
formances daily  and  a  fresh  play  every  week, 
which  are  a  great  deal  worse  than  useless),  which 
were  the  only  practical  schools  of  acting,  abol- 
ished competition,  provided  endless  circuits  for 
worthless  plays,  and  manufactured  "stars"  at 
will  by  the  process  of  advertisement.  The  only 
chance  for  a  real  and  permanent  theatrical  re- 
vival, the  reestablishment  of  the  theater,  that  is, 
upon  a  dramatic,  literary,  and  artistic  founda- 
tion— with  actors  capable  of  interpreting  either 
masterpieces  or  pot-boilers — lies  in  the  restora- 
tion of  the  stock  system  and  of  honest,  wholesome 
competition.  That  is  my  unshakeable  conviction 
after  half  a  century  of  observation  and  experi- 
ence. Sooner  or  later,  I  believe,  this  will  come 
about.  Signs  of  impending  change  in  theatrical 
conditions — the  disruption  of  syndicates,  signifi- 
cant bankruptcies,  etc. — are  not  wanting.  From 
all  sides  come  reports  of  the  organization  of  new 
stock  companies  with  definite  programmes  and 
good  financial  backing. 

If  these  experiments  succeed  there  will  be  no 
lack  of  imitators.  Then  we  may  be  upon  the 

463 


SIXTY    YEARS    OF    THE    THEATER 

brink  of  a  new  era.  In  the  host  of  little  theaters 
— artistic,  realistic,  futuristic,  independent,  ex- 
perimental, or  what  not — I  do  not,  I  must  con- 
fess, put  much  faith.  Some  of  them  are  excellent 
things  in  their  way,  and  deserve  every  encour- 
agement, but  of  all  the  many  scores  of  such 
experiments  with  which  I  have  been  acquainted 
not  one,  so  far,  as  I  can  remember,  has  lived  for 
long,  or  left  appreciable  results  behind.  It  is  in 
a  system  of  competitive  stock  companies,  run 
on  business  principles,  striving  to  win  public 
patronage  by  deserving  it,  that  I  see  the  prom- 
ise of  a  theater  that  will  command  the  favor  and 
support  of  all  the  intelligent  classes. 

But  I  do  not  hold  the  syndicate  system  alone 
responsible  for  the  low  estate  into  which  the 
theater  and  theatrical  art  have  fallen  in  these 
latter  days.  A  considerable  share  of  the  blame 
must  rest  upon  a  public  press  which,  in  the  inter- 
ests of  commercialism,  has  not  hesitated  to  accept 
false  standards  and  help  the  managerial  game 
by  lavishing  unmerited  and  deceptive  praise  upon 
poor  plays  and  indifferent  performers.  If  the 
theater  is  ever  to  regain  respect,  it  must  be  dis- 
cussed truthfully,  capably,  and  fearlessly. 


464 


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